


Ripples in the River

by TheLifeOfEmm



Category: Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Barricade is canon-compliant except where dictated by the AU, Brick Canon, Briefly suicidal thoughts, Canon Divergence, Cosette is perceptive, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Family, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Javert eventually gets to reciprocate, Javert gets patched up, Kissing, M/M, Off-screen barricade deaths, Slow Burn, Sort of case fic, Stream of Consciousness, This pairing deserves more fluff than it gets
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-21
Updated: 2016-07-06
Packaged: 2018-06-09 17:40:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 19
Words: 65,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6916951
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheLifeOfEmm/pseuds/TheLifeOfEmm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Inspector Javert is injured while staking out the Rue Plumet, and is less than thrilled when Valjean takes it upon himself to help him. </p><p>Or, in which the author asked herself what might have happened if Javert had caught up to Valjean nearer to the middle of the story, and what effect that could ultimately have on the ending.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. In which mistakes are made

**Author's Note:**

> It's been a while since I've published a multi-chapter story like this, so thank you for your indulgence. My current estimate puts the final story in the 50-60k range, but that's a very rough guess. In any case, please enjoy what is not so much a "fix-it" fic as it is preventative action on the author's part.
> 
> In terms of timeline, imagine this begins some time after the attempted robbery at the Gorbeau House, but before all that revolution business.

Grey light fell through the misty morning air, illuminating a quiet stretch of cobblestone street. Behind shuttered windows, not one of the inhabitants of the Rue Plumet stirred, still ensconced indoors, waiting for the early hours to pass.

Down the road, Inspector Javert was skulking in the shadows of an alley, and he was less than pleased about it. Another night had passed him by, and although he had been staking out the corner for what had just become his fifth day, he was no closer to accomplishing his mission than he had been when he started. With a huff, he tightened his arms across his chest and stepped further back into the darkness.

Beside him, his subordinate, a man called Beaulieu, noted his change of position and matched it.

"Monsieur l'Inspector," he murmured, breaking a silence which had gone uninterrupted for the past several hours.

Javert inclined his chin in the shorter man's direction, a tacit acknowledgment of his appellation.

"There's been no sign of anyone since an hour past midnight," said Beaulieu, a flicker of hesitancy in his voice. "The Prefect will be expecting our report - what are we to tell him?"

The Inspector took a hissing breath through his teeth, staring out and down the Rue Plumet with an expression of deepest concentration.

"We will tell him," he began slowly, "precisely what we have observed. The inhabitants keep to themselves; there is no way to be certain one way or another if the informer was telling the truth."

"Sir..."

Javert took another deliberate breath. There were few things about his work which he despised quite so much as having to keep a shift with a chatty officer. Chatty, to the Inspector, was any man who spoke for any reason other than to discuss intel. As a natural result, he worked nearly all of his shifts alone.

"If the informer is correct," Beaulieu was saying, "and your suspicion as to the target’s identity is also confirmed, what are you going to -"

"Quiet." The Inspector held up his hand, cocking his head to one side as he listened. From some nearby place came the sound of a woman's exclamation. "Trouble in the streets," he muttered, turning down the alley. "Come on."

"But the stakeout -"

"- Will have to wait," the Inspector interrupted. "Prioritize, officer."

Javert strode down the alley, Beaulieu not far behind, and turned left when they reached the end. The main street on this side was almost as deserted, but from the other end of the neighboring building issued the sounds of a scuffle.

The Inspector drew his rapier from his side, rounding the corner into a small niche barking, "Halt!"

A tavern maid was pressed against the side of the wall, shaking, while a cloaked man holding a knife dug through her purse. He looked up, snarling, as Javert appeared in front of him.

"You, drop the weapon," ordered Javert, pointing his sword at the robber.

Rather than comply, the man sprang to his feet, waving his knife towards the woman.

"Lemme go, Monsieur," growled the man, "or I'll see that she gets it."

Javert raised one hand in a gesture which might have been placating had it come from anyone else. "It will go easier for you to surrender," he said quietly, but with a firmness that brooked no argument. "The punishment for petty theft is five years in prison. For murder, you will get a lot more than that."

Javert was aware of Beaulieu watching him curiously out the corner of his eye, but he brushed this aside easily. There was a crime at hand, and this the Inspector understood: stop the robbery, protect the innocent, maintain order.

The would-be thief showed no sign of standing down, however, and Javert was running out of options. If he attacked directly, the woman was sure to be hurt. Even as he was thinking this, the issue was taken out of his hands by one who, in Javert's mind, was the least likely of all parties.

The tavern maid, seeing her attacker was focused on the Inspector, lunged forward and grabbed him by the wrist clutching the knife. He let out a cry of surprise followed by a dozen curses, but her intervention gave Javert and Beaulieu the opportunity to come to her aid.

Jumping into the fray, the officers swiftly beat the man to his knees, but not before he was able, with a well-placed kick, to knock the tavern maid off of him.

Swinging his arm around, blinded by pain and by bodies, the thief lashed out with his knife. Javert stopped short, his hands clutching the man by the lapels, as cold steel dragged its way across his left shoulder blade. Beaulieu, seeing his superior falter, cracked the thief across his brow. The latter dropped to the ground, bruised to senselessness.

Breathing hard, Javert staggered to his feet. Where first he had felt nothing, there was a growing sting. This bothered him less than the hot liquid he could feel running in trickles down his back. Beaulieu held out a hand, but Javert fended him off.

"Leave it," he growled. "You -” he said, pointing at the woman, “Take your purse. Make sure you have everything of yours. You -” he added, turning to Beaulieu, “Take this man to the station at once. I will return to our post until the allotted time is up."

"But, Monsieur l'Inspector," argued Beaulieu, stepping closer. "You must go to the hospital, you are -"

Javert's nostrils flared, and the young officer backed up in alarm.

"One of us must take the thief into custody. As the uninjured party, it is most sensible for you to do this, should he wake up before you reach the station." Beaulieu, more daring than most, opened his mouth to interrupt, but Javert had none of it. " _However_ , Officer Beaulieu, we were given an assignment by the Prefect, and I will see it carried out. The wound is not serious; I will tend to it when our job is done and not before. Call a fiacre. That is an order."

Beaulieu, appearing suitably cowed, ducked his head in agreement. He hoisted the unconscious man by one arm, securing shackles around his wrists. He then picked up the dead weight none too gently, turning to hail a passing carriage. It was a testament to his persistence that he called back over his shoulder, "I'll have a fiacre meet you here in an hour to take you to the hospital."

"That will not be necessary," the Inspector said tightly. "I will speak with you later about this." He faced the tavern maid, who had been watching this exchange warily. "Mademoiselle, kindly follow Officer Beaulieu, so that you may file a report of the incident."

She nodded, skirting where the imposing Inspector stood and ducked behind the younger, friendlier Beaulieu.

Having said and done all which he deemed necessary, Javert turned and headed back down the alley, grimacing when the wind brushed against the open wound in his shoulder. He reached their post, standing stiffly once more in the shadows and trying to repress the pain he could feel jangling down his spine. The Prefect was expecting him in less than an hour, and he had nothing to report, a fact which stung just as intensely as his injury.

On Sunday, a police informant had stumbled into the station with a tip regarding a certain philanthropist who was rumored to live on the Rue Plumet, a man who dressed in rags and yet was often seen going out among the locals, distributing food, blankets, and coins. Inspector Javert was reminded immediately of a man he had once known to do the same, The Beggar Who Gives Alms, or so some called him. Javert knew him by another name, and also by a number. On a hunch, he had petitioned the Prefect for the opportunity to investigate, citing money laundering as a principle concern.

Considering the man's faultless record as Police Inspector, the Prefect could hardly refuse him, but perhaps guessing at some of the frenetic obsession masked beneath duty and loyalty to authority, had insisted that Javert be accompanied by one of his subordinates, "should a situation arise".

Over the course of the last several days, Javert grudgingly allowed Beaulieu to assist him in tracking residents' comings and goings, noting who spoke to who, and when, and if money changed hands. The Rue Plumet was a quiet street. There was little to record. There was even less to confirm the informer's story.

The Inspector was a smart man, and well-versed in policy and procedure. He did not have to guess at what would happen when he told his superior he had seen neither hide nor hair of the purported philanthropist. The Prefect would take down his report, file it, and reassign him somewhere he thought more useful. Javert would never again have the chance to learn if he were right, if the suspect in this matter were a reneged convict.

This thought sat poorly in his stomach, and he tried to ignore the logic telling him that blood loss was unlikely to be sitting well with him, either. Every second counted. If he could only find some shred of evidence, the Prefect could be persuaded to extend the length of his assignment.

Even as he began to despair of learning anything worthwhile, a flash of movement caught his eye. Not quite halfway down the Rue Plumet, a gate swung inward on its hinges, and a man slipped out. Javert narrowed his eyes. He had seen a dark-haired woman - a servant, presumably - issue from the house, but no one else.

This man had white hair and broad shoulders. The Inspector tried to match the reality with his memory, and found the two seemed to converge. He stepped forward, hoping to get a better look, when the man raised his head.

Inspector Javert smiled a smile which was at once vindictive and vindicated. There was no mistaking the weary features of his quarry. The man in the street was most assuredly Jean Valjean.

Pausing a moment, Javert pondered the wisest course of action. The Prefect would want him only to observe, to return at a later date to make an arrest. The state of his shoulder was another factor in favor of merely watching. Experience, however, told him that Valjean was not to be trusted; for all the Inspector knew, his current departure could easily be him fleeing the scene.

Javert's palms itched in his desire to see justice done. He could not stand the thought of the convict slipping through his fingers yet again, and this settled him. Pulling his sword again from his side, Javert stepped out of the alley onto the street.

"Valjean!" he shouted.

The Inspector did not think he had ever seen someone whirl around quite so quickly at the sound of their name as Valjean did just then. Seeing who it was, Valjean's face paled by degrees.

"Inspector Javert," he said, his voice remarkably even. "I must confess, I had not expected to see you here."

"You'll have more than that to confess," proclaimed the Inspector. "You have decades' worth of crimes to answer for."

Valjean glanced sideways at the house from which he had just exited, number fifty-five.

"Perhaps you could keep your voice down?" he suggested. "It would be rude to wake the entire street."

"Certainly," replied the Inspector. "Surrender quietly, and there will be no need to cause a scene."

"About that," Valjean interjected, taking one step closer. "I have no intention of returning to prison. I have too much to do here."

Javert extended his rapier in warning. He gauged the distance between the two of them, reasonably confident that he could catch him if the convict tried to run. Meanwhile, Valjean pulled up short, staring at the blade with distaste.

"I do not wish to fight you, Javert."

"My title is 'Inspector'," the taller man said icily. "Kindly see fit to use it."

"You can only lose," Valjean continued as if he had not heard. "Better for everyone if you forget you ever saw me."

"As if I would let you go," Javert scoffed. "How many years have you evaded capture? No, Valjean, it is high time you returned to the galleys."

Valjean's eyes darted around him, doubtless seeking something to use as a weapon. Javert had no intention of letting him find one. He lunged forward, sword raised, and with nothing in hand by which to parry it, Valjean was forced to jump to the side. The Inspector spun to face him, striking a hit across his opponent's arm, but Valjean scarcely seemed to register the blow.

Instead, the old convict ducked again out of the way, springing to the Inspector's left and catching him by his unarmed hand. With a twist and a jerk, he pressed Javert's wrist up between his scapulae, and Javert stifled a cry as the motion wrenched the knife wound in his shoulder.

He tasted bile in the back of his throat, and did not know if it were a response to pain or to the bitterness of his regret that he had not waited to act. Patience was more generally one of his virtues, and now it seemed he was to pay the price for not exercising it.

The Inspector was already seeing spots, when with a swing of his fist, Valjean rendered him unconscious.

 


	2. In which there is a choice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As of now, I have the first seven chapters written, and will be posting one approximately every other day. I am hoping to keep writing at a pace which will let me keep that up, while still allowing space to make edits based on feedback.
> 
> Speaking of which, thank you to everyone who has read and reviewed this so far - I'm flattered that you like it, and just hope that I can continue to meet expectations.

It was the feeling of comfort which Javert noticed first, the springy mattress beneath him, and the softness of the quilt. The sensation, so different from his own hard bed, was foreign enough to warrant surprise before the pain set in.

He did not have long to wait, however. The more his faculties returned to him, the greater the discomfort which registered. His head pounded, of course, and he could just imagine the bruising on his temple, but besides that, his shoulder burned in a way which he found cause for concern.

The Inspector opened his eyes a crack, surveying what he could of the room. The bed, with its iron frame, ended a few feet in front of a plain door, which, he noted, was closed. To his left was a small dresser and a wash basin, and to his right only a window hung with a plain white valance. A single vase of flowers on the night table lent a spot of color to an otherwise dull space. His greatcoat, he likewise saw, hung on a hook on the back of the door.

He did not think he was in a hospital. It looked more like a sympathetic citizen, perhaps finding his discarded body hidden in some back street, had taken him in. He sighed and stared at the ceiling, finding that his ribs, too, were sore. Eventually, he went to pull himself up into a more dignified position. That was when he discovered the manacles.

Rolling obliquely onto his side, he stared at the thin circlets joining his good wrist and the bed frame. His breath caught in his chest as all the facets of his situation rearranged themselves to form a new, suddenly more uncertain, picture. It was unlikely that just anyone would have thought to restrain him thusly; while it was entirely possible that his reputation for stubbornness preceded him, that was only likely to make the average Parisian more hesitant to take any bold action around him. No, the list of individuals who might have done this was short, and not one option among them boded well for him.

Javert looked up at the sound of the knob turning. He narrowed his eyes as an older woman entered, a tray with a bowl balanced on her hip. Something about her struck him as familiar, but he could not place the resemblance.

"Ah, Monsieur is awake," she said, shutting the door neatly behind her. "How are you feeling?"

"Like I got stabbed and then hit over the head," Javert growled. "Where am I?"

Apparently not put off by the Inspector's hostility, the woman - a servant, judging by her garb - rested the tray on the sideboard and came to look him over.

"This is the house of Monsieur Fauchelevent," she said. "He had the doctor over while you were still asleep and got your shoulder all bandaged up. He also said you don't care much for him so he sent me in first so as not to startle you into hurting yourself."

Javert narrowed his eyes still further, staring at her suspiciously. There was no shadow of a lie in the woman's eyes, and for a moment, the man was flummoxed. Then, with the clarity of a startling dream, a scrap of memory returned to him, of a mayor who pulled a man named Fauchelevent out from under the crushing weight of a collapsed cart. Not long thereafter, the mayor disappeared into the night without a trace, not a mayor at all, but an old convict, and his name was -

Javert's mouth was open, the name on his tongue, when he reconsidered. He knew now that this could only be the woman he had witnessed exiting number fifty-five two days prior. If she were loyal to Valjean, spilling his secret could easily turn her against him. Better, perhaps, to try to earn her trust first. Captured as he was, it could do him no harm to bide his time and possibly make himself an ally.

Instead, he asked, "How long have I been asleep?"

Picking up the tray to transfer it to Javert's lap, the servant seemed to consider this. "The better part of the day, I should say," she informed him. "It was not quite eight when Monsieur brought you here, and it is after seven in the evening now."

"I see." He looked down at the broth she provided and raised the spoon. A gentle tendril of steam curled across his chin as he warily sipped at it, his distrust warring with his instinctual awareness that he required food. The soup was plain and without substance, but his head protested even the slightest of movements, and so that was just as well.

"Can I get you anything else, Monsieur?" asked the woman.

Javert shook his head once, curtly. "But you might do me the courtesy of introducing yourself."

The woman's eyes widened and she put her hand to her mouth. "I beg your pardon, Monsieur, I have been quite rude. I am called Toussaint, and I am servant to Monsieur Fauchelevent and his daughter."

"I see. Thank you," replied the Inspector, speaking purely by rote as he processed this information.

Daughter? What daughter could Valjean have? The illegitimate brat of some shipyard harlot, probably, he thought, which was both nearer and farther from the mark than he could possibly have imagined.

Toussaint made her exit shortly after adjusting a picture frame on the dresser. When the door clicked shut behind her, and the Inspector was again alone in the heavy silence, he took as deep a breath as he was able and sank down against the pillows, examining the shackles cuffing him to the bed while turning his head as little as he could get by with. They were his own shackles, he discovered with a supreme sense of irony, and as such were well tended - there would be no rust to exploit, nor a sticky latch which might have not caught completely. The keys were doubtless either in the pocket of his inaccessible greatcoat, or in the pocket of Valjean himself.

This thought gave Javert some pause - could he be entirely certain that the Fauchelevent of whom Toussaint spoke was indeed one of Valjean's countless aliases? No, he could not, at least until his host decided to show himself. Still, it would be a curious coincidence, and Javert had little use for nor faith in coincidences.

The headboard was forged of wrought iron, and the solder was as strong as the cuffs holding him to it. Javert's mouth and means of escape thinned considerably. He had little time to dwell on it, however, because at that moment, the knob on the door turned for the second time since he had regained consciousness.

He straightened, lifting his chin defiantly and clenching his fists at his sides (less so on his left, for his shoulder twanged mightily in protest), but while it was Valjean who entered, it was not the powerful, proud Valjean who had beaten him that morning. This Valjean's head was bowed, and while he still carried himself with strength, there was defeat written in the slump of his shoulders. Javert stared at him as he made his way around the side of the bed, drawing up a stool from next to the dresser, and the Inspector's lip curled. Here he was at last, face-to-face with an old adversary, and in spite of the dire straights he knew himself to be in, he could not help but feel a flush of pride at having tracked the old con down.

"Javert," Valjean greeted him heavily as he took his seat. "Toussaint told me you were awake."

Perhaps Valjean's melancholy should strike the reader as curious, and indeed, Javert himself had yet to properly register it, caught up as he was in his own anger, but in order to understand the depth of Valjean's predicament, it is necessary to consider what occurred immediately following his incapacitating the Inspector.

* * *

Earlier that morning, as a gray, overcast sky began to give way to blue, Valjean exhaled, Javert's limp form sagging in his grasp. It had truly not been his desire to get into an altercation, but by that same token, he was not about to permit the other man to shout his name or his history up and down the street where Cosette or anyone else might hear it. He glanced at number fifty-five, but there was no light in the girl's window. He prayed she was still asleep.

Looking down at Javert, Valjean had to wonder if he might have killed the man. He had not intended to, but in his panic, he had hit him rather hard. The thought that his long-standing opponent might be dead caused him to feel a moment's guilty relief. He immediately reprimanded himself, stooping to sit on the ground, and then pressed his fingers against the Inspector's neck; the flutter of a pulse told him Javert was alive.

Standing again, Valjean brushed the grit from his knees and wondered what to do. He could go inside, call Cosette to him, and run, perhaps booking passage to somewhere down the coast, but the girl would demand an explanation. She was not so young anymore that they could flee into the night without her asking why. At the same time, he knew better than to try to appeal to the Inspector's better nature; if the man had one, then it was long since buried. It would be past the point of foolishness to hope Javert would grant him a reprieve.

Even as he dithered, it occurred to Valjean how suspicious it would look to anyone peering out their window to see him standing there over the Inspector. Worrying his lower lip, he bent over and picked up the other man, carrying him through the gate into the front garden of number fifty-five, lacking as he was in other ideas. Hidden thusly, he slumped onto the bench which sat just inside the walls, rubbing his temples. It was only when he looked up that he realized there was blood on his hand.

He blinked in surprise. It could not be his own, this he knew. The scratch on his arm was merely that; Javert had not been trying to kill him, only to frighten him into surrendering. Tilting his head, he considered where he had rested Javert’s form on the leaf-strewn grass. A sinking feeling in his gut, it occurred to Valjean that the Inspector had been subdued with rather greater ease than he had been in the past.

Removing himself from the bench, Valjean looked Javert over once again. Under his more careful consideration, a spot on the other man’s coat sleeve caught his eye. Valjean rolled the Inspector onto his front, and was dismayed to discover a tear in the fabric of his greatcoat which he had not noticed before. Speckling the navy wool were darker flecks which smeared under his fingers.

Valjean winced to himself. Given the circumstances, it was his responsibility to help the man, and yet, given the circumstances, he could not have said he was thrilled by the idea. Never mind that the Inspector would want nothing to do with him, there was Cosette to consider. If she got to talking with the eminent Inspector, she would learn the truth of Valjean’s past. Javert, he knew, would not lie to protect him if someone put a gun to his head.

Still, he thought, the man was bleeding and had been for some time. He could hardly send him to a hospital, as he would most assuredly call for Valjean’s arrest the minute he came to, but if Valjean did not act, he would die, and Valjean’s conscience could not tolerate that. Making up his mind, loathe as he was to do so, he picked up Javert once more and carried him through the apple trees to the house, looking furtively around to see if anyone were watching. So far as he could see, his neighbors were still preoccupied indoors. The sun was rising, however, and they would not stay that way for long.

The inside of number fifty-five was cool and dark. The fire was burning low in the grate, and the curtains were yet pulled snugly over the windows. A creak from above told him that Cosette was stirring. Hurrying, Valjean crossed down the hall past the salon and knocked on a door next to the stairs. It opened but a moment later, a careworn woman’s face greeting him.

“Ah, Toussaint,” Valjean said quietly, “I apologize for the intrusion, but I’m afraid I must ask a favor of you.”

His servant glanced down, pointedly making note of the man he was carrying.

“Say no more, Monsieur,” she said, pulling her door open graciously. “He may use my bed for as long as he is unwell. I will sleep on the couch in the meantime.”

Valjean shook his head as he deposited the Inspector on the mattress. “I wouldn’t hear of it,” he said. “I will sleep on the couch, and you, Madame, may make use of the master bedroom.”

“But, Monsieur -”

“I insist,” said Valjean, turning back around to speak to her. “I have displaced you from your private quarters; it is the least I can do to make it up to you.”

Toussaint looked as if she were going to argue, but she apparently thought better of it.

“Very well, Monsieur,” she said instead. “Would you like me to go and call a doctor?”

Valjean nodded. “If it is not too much trouble, I would appreciate it. I do not know how long he has been like this. The sooner a doctor can see to him, the better.”

No sooner had Toussaint left on her errand than Valjean turned back to look at the Inspector. In the dim light a single candle provided, he appeared drawn, and Valjean experienced a flutter of concern. Who knew how much blood the Inspector had lost? Javert grunted in his sleep, and another thought occurred to him. Pulling the man’s greatcoat from his shoulders and digging through the pockets, it did not take Valjean long to find a set of manacles. Their snick was loud in the quiet room as Valjean cuffed Javert’s right arm to the headboard.

Suddenly, the space was too quiet. Breathing deeply, Valjean turned and did not quite run out of the room, shutting the door securely behind him, only to see Cosette entering the dining room to make up breakfast.

“Ah, Cosette,” Valjean said with a smile, though something in it pained him. “You must go on alone with Toussaint to the church today. We have a guest - a gentleman who cannot go to the hospital - and he is injured. I will stay here to speak with the doctor when he arrives, but please, let him rest.”

“Of course, papa,” replied the girl, an unspoken question on her face.

Valjean crossed the main room to the table, sitting next to her. “It is our God-given duty to help others, you know that, right?”

Cosette nodded, still regarding him with a puzzled expression.

“Distribute coins for me at the church today, just as we always do. I will tend to our guest. Please do not disturb him. He needs his sleep.”

Cosette nodded again, picking up a slice of toast and buttering it.

“As you say, papa,” she said. “Do you know what happened to the poor man?”

Valjean wrinkled his nose, partly out of guilt, partly out of worry. “He appears to have been on the wrong end of a fight.”

Cosette shook her head, her blonde curls bouncing in the soft firelight. “That's awful. I hope he feels better very soon.”

Valjean sat across from her at the table and watched her eat, eating very little himself, pondering the girl’s words. Under a doctor’s care, and with ample food and drink, the Inspector doubtless would recover, and what then? He could hardly stay locked in Toussaint’s room forever. Sooner or later, Valjean would have to release him, and he knew better than to expect Javert would show him any mercy for his help. No, likely as not, the Inspector would be baying for his blood the minute he woke up, and when he was well, would be only too ready to drag Valjean back to prison.

The silence after Cosette went to the church, before the doctor’s visit, and after he left, trailing bandages and prescriptions, gave Valjean plenty of solitude to contemplate these things, and to come to a conclusion which he dreaded but which felt more inevitable with each passing hour.


	3. In which the household gains prominence

Sitting up in bed, Javert regarded Valjean haughtily.

“You,” he said. “I thought as much. This has your brand of criminal written all over it,” he added, gesturing to where his wrist conjoined with the head board.

Valjean lifted a hand. “Javert, please. The chain is purely a temporary measure.”

The Inspector scoffed. “You say that as if you don't intend to keep me like this, as if you don't know that you would no sooner release me than I would clap you in irons myself.”

“I do know that,” Valjean said heavily. "And when you are well, you may do as you see fit."

Javert sneered. "You are lying."

Valjean shook his head. "I do not expect you to believe me. You have no reason to. But when the time comes, please grant me one boon: that you will arrest me after my daughter and Toussaint have gone out for the day. They know nothing of my true identity, and are innocent of any wrong-doing.”

Javert glared at him. "Either you lie or have taken leave of your senses."

"Believe what you will," sighed Valjean, whose eyes seemed to focus on some distant point beyond where either of them sat. "How is your shoulder?"

"It was cut open by a pick-pocket," Javert informed him. "A _thief_ ," he added pointedly, and was not displeased to see Valjean flinch a little at the word. "How do you expect it is?"

Valjean nodded wryly. "Poor, I should imagine."

"I notice it has been wrapped," the Inspector continued, raising an eyebrow. "Your servant called it the work of a doctor."

"So it was."

"And tell me," Javert continued coldly, "did your doctor have nothing to say about this?" Again, he indicated the restraints.

Valjean sighed again, although in this case it seemed to be more out of exasperation. "He is an acquaintance of mine, and I explained it was a delicate situation. He did not question it."

Javert snorted. "Quite the professional, I have no doubt."

Valjean looked away. "I should go. This cannot be aiding your recovery."

As the older man stood up to leave, a thought occurred to Javert and he called out, "You have a daughter."

Valjean paused. "After a fashion," he said finally.

"What does that mean?"

Valjean turned to face him then, looking him in the eyes for the first time all evening. "I have cared for her, but she is not my child. She is Fantine's."

Then Valjean left, shutting the door behind him, and Javert was left alone.

* * *

Javert slept poorly that night. In fact, had he had his way, he would not have slept at all, but in the early, black hours of the morning, sheer exhaustion overwhelmed paranoia, and he fell into a restless slumber. At the crack of dawn, the growing ache in his shoulder woke him again.

He grimaced; an infection now would prove an unpleasant complication very quickly, and Valjean would surely use it as an excuse to keep him under lock and key. Not, Javert reflected, that Valjean required any such excuse. Javert was in no position to defend himself, and he was under no illusions where Valjean's strength was concerned.

By one token, Valjean could not hope to keep him prisoner forever, if for no other reason than that sooner or later, the other members of his household would grow unacceptably curious about the man Valjean had seemingly rescued. Conversely, if Valjean did not know already that no amount of medical treatment could buy Javert's pardon, then he would soon. Valjean's pretense of surrender was merely that, a pretense, and once he saw Javert would accept no compromise, he would have to find some other way to dispose of the Inspector.

Every slight movement sent shooting pains down his spine, and Javert grit his teeth, well aware that all Valjean had to do to get rid of him was to cease his treatment of the Inspector's shoulder and permit illness to take over. Murder would require stealth and deception, but it would be so easy for Valjean to sadly tell his servant and the girl how the doctor had failed them and their poor guest had been consumed by fever in the night. How _terribly_ awful it would be for everyone.

It was in the midst of these morbid thoughts that Valjean knocked softly on the door and entered.

"Ah, Javert, I thought you might be awake," said Valjean, carrying a roll of cloth.

Javert glared stonily back, saying nothing, but Valjean just shook his head and smiled enigmatically, clearly in a better mood than the day before.

"Your bandages need changing," Valjean continued. "The doctor will be back this afternoon with a dose of laudanum, but in the meantime, I apologize for your discomfort."

Javert's jaw tightened, but still he said nothing, only watched Valjean's every move. The older man set the cloth on the dresser, and poured some water into the basin. Then he glanced briefly over at the Inspector.

"Are you able to unbutton that shirt with one hand?"

Javert turned his head sharply, and immediately regretted it as his injury protested.

"Your bandages need changing," Valjean repeated patiently.

"Don't pretend you want to help me," Javert warned. "Letting me die will do you more favors."

Valjean shook his head vehemently, even as he ripped a length of cloth and soaked it in the water.

"That is not my intent," he said. "If I wished your death, I would have left you in the street rather than brought you into my home."

He carried the wet cloth over and sat on the stool next to the bed as he had the day before.

"The shirt, please."

Javert hesitated, but ultimately decided to preserve as much of his dignity as he could, and so raised his hand to his collar. It was slow work, for he could only use one hand, and on his bad arm at that, but after what felt like an eternity, the cotton fabric fell away, and he shrugged the sleeve over the bandages wrapping his shoulder. He looked levelly at Valjean, daring him silently to make his next move.

Valjean returned his look mildly. "You'll need to turn over on your side.

Javert tilted his chin. "So you can slide another knife in my back?"

"Javert, you have nothing to fear from me, you have my word of that. I only want to help."

Javert wanted to argue, to say that Valjean did not frighten him, but he also knew, like a cold, unsinkable truth, that Valjean did, in this capacity, frighten him, because he held all the cards. However, he supposed Valjean could stick a knife between his ribs as easily from the front as the back, and if indeed it was his intent only to change his dressings, then it was to the Inspector's benefit to allow it. After all, he consoled himself as he turned over, the longer he was alive and free of fever, the longer he had to plan a means of escape. He still could not suppress the feeling of defeat as he stared at the window.

Acutely aware of every small sound and sensation, Javert tensed as Valjean's hands swept over him, finding the end of the bandage and tugging gently on it until it unraveled. Quietly requesting the Inspector raise his arm, Javert's eyes fluttered closed as he felt the long length of cloth slipping off, exposing the raw skin beneath to the cool air.

Valjean made a quiet noise of alarm, and Javert had to wonder how bad it was. It was by no means the first time his occupation had led to an injury, and the thin scars which littered his skin attested to that fact, but it had been awhile since some low-life had managed to get such a substantial gash across him.

His teeth ground together as Valjean cautiously wiped at the wound, presumably removing the congealed blood and pus.

There was a frown in Valjean's voice as he said, "These sutures are all inflamed. You may want to keep weight off this side after I've finished."

Javert's only comment was to grunt, for surely that much was obvious, but Valjean did not appear phased. He merely continued his work in silence, deftly and efficiently, and every time his rough fingertips brushed against Javert's back, the Inspector suppressed a shudder at the cold tingles which raced across his body.

After what felt like an eternity, Valjean at last began to finish up. Wrapping new cloth around the injury, he pinned it deftly in place and cut off the excess.

"There," he said. "That should hold. Will you take breakfast?"

"I'll pass," came the curt response.

"Very well, then," said Valjean, "I'll bring you lunch once the doctor arrives with your medication, shall I?”

Javert said nothing as he pulled his shirt back in place, hoping that silence would drive Valjean from the room. It seemed to do the trick; a minute later, there came the quiet click of the door shutting.

In the early morning sun, the little room was bathed in golden light, casting warmth on the faded quilt. It shone in sharp contrast to the Inspector's thoughts, which were as cold and black as they might have been. He had already contemplated the possibility of breaking his wrist to pull it out of the cuff holding him to the bed frame, but he was loathe to try it, as having two injured appendages would make any attempt at escape infinitely more difficult.

Another possibility was the use of a file, which ironically enough was a tool Valjean had some skill with. Had Javert thought himself more dexterous, he might have attempted to lure the other man near enough to search, but that plan was contingent not only on Valjean carrying a file on his person - a notion which Javert found probable, given his past - but also the Inspector's ability to find it.  

The third option, and one which Javert found most in his favor, was to convince the housekeeper to let him out, if only to "stretch his legs"; however, Toussaint had not been back since her first appearance. Possibly Valjean was even deliberately keeping her away to prevent such an occurrence.

Javert watched a haze of dust particles filter through the sunlight before the glow disappeared behind a passing cloud. There was one other factor, it dawned on him slowly - Beaulieu. The young officer could be irritatingly smug, there was no question of that, but he was also remarkably capable for someone of his ilk. He knew the Inspector had returned to the Rue Plumet; would he notice if his superior failed to make it back to the station?

Sooner than Javert had anticipated, the door pushed inwards again - perhaps the doctor had arrived early. But no - it was not Valjean who entered, but a girl who curtsied shyly, half-hidden behind the leaf of the door. Her blue dress was not new, but it was well-tended, and she had a daisy stuck behind her ear.

"Pardon me, Monsieur," she said. "I shan't intrude on your recovery. I just couldn't help but wonder who it was my father brought here so early yesterday morning."

Javert stared blankly at her, for he had seen that face before, in a small town to the north, many years ago. And then he understood, and his mouth tasted suddenly of ash. This was the daughter of Fantine, who looked so much like her mother as to seem to him a ghost. The girl was no ghost, however, but flesh and blood, and somehow that knowledge pained him the more.

"Monsieur?" she asked, her blonde curls glinting. "You've turned quite pale - I apologize if I've given you a fright."

"Where is your father?" Javert croaked. It did not even occur to him to refer to Valjean as anything else.

"He is in the garden - I can go and fetch him if you like. He will be cross with me for disturbing you, but -"

Javert was shaking his head. "I only wondered," he said, attempting to make his voice steadier. "What is your name, gir - Mademoiselle?"

She curtsied again, less shyly this time. "I am called Cosette."

"Cosette," Javert echoed faintly, the final nail in the coffin of his memory. "I see."

"And Monsieur's?" she inquired politely.

Javert hesitated. "You will have to ask your father what to call me," he said finally.

"Cosette?" Valjean's voice called from across the house.

The girl's eyes widened. "I must go now. Feel better, Monsieur." She curtsied again for good measure and slipped out the door, calling back, "Coming, Papa!"

When she had gone, Javert leaned his head back against the headboard. It hurt his shoulder, but he welcomed the pain. It was a distraction. He berated himself for his cowardice, and for the damned sweat beading his forehead.

He had had the perfect opportunity within his reach, perhaps to escape, certainly to tear down the falsehood of a happy life Valjean had constructed for himself, but he had not. Why? One word to the child, Cosette, could have unraveled every lie Valjean must have ever fed her about his past.

How was it that Fantine, who had been so feeble in life when he arrested her, now had her slender fingers around his throat, stilling his tongue? That he should feel any guilt about her death was absurd; he only did what he had to do to keep law-breakers off the street for the hardworking citizens of France. Still, for the moment in which the child had stood in the room, he felt something thick and black and nameless crawl over him, like the residue of a bad dream. Javert cursed them all for it, and himself most of all.

When Valjean entered at last with a tray and a vial presumably delivered by the doctor, it was almost a relief, if only to have someone else to abuse with the acidity of his thoughts.

"Cosette was asking after you," Valjean said with apparent amusement. This statement immediately did away with any relief the Inspector might have felt.

"And what did you tell her?" came the spiteful response. "That I'm a police spy you're keeping under lock and key so I cannot send you back to Toulon?"

Javert was reasonably sure that Valjean's mouth tightened by a hair, but his voice was measured as ever when he said, "Nothing so drastic, I'm afraid. Just that we've met before, elsewhere."

Javert made a derisive expression and changed tactics, gesturing toward the amber bottle in Valjean's hand.

"What's that?"

"Laudanum. It'll kill the pain in your shoulder."

"And the rest of me as well, I don't doubt," the Inspector grumbled, taking the vial from him and looking the label over. "Opium, saffron, nutmeg, all suspended in forty-eight percent alcohol. I hate opiates."

Shrugging, Valjean said, "Don't take any, then. It's all the same to me."

"I have a choice?"

Valjean made a face. "Well, I'm hardly going to make you take it, am I? But if you decide you want it, the doctor said to take no more than a spoonful in one evening."

"Hmmm." Javert looked at the bottle critically again and set it next to him on the night stand. Valjean went to take it, but Javert waved him away. "I may want some later," he admitted grudgingly.

“Mmm.” Valjean nodded his understanding. He set the tray down on the Inspector’s lap; it held a bowl of soup like that of the day prior. “Is there anything else you require?”

Javert raised an eyebrow. "A key?" he suggested, jangling the chain keeping him in place for emphasis.

Valjean sighed. "You know perfectly well I'm not about to give you that yet."

With a curl of his lip, Javert said, "I know perfectly well that you won't be giving me that at all. Drop the façade, it's wasted on me."

Valjean just shook his head and moved towards the door, though he paused as he set his hand on the knob.

"Would you care for some company?" he inquired, and had Javert not known better, he might have imagined that Valjean sounded hopeful.

"From you?" asked the Inspector incredulously. "Of all the nerve -"

Valjean turned back to face him. "Javert, whatever it may look like, you are not a prisoner here. If extending my hospitality is cause for offense, then I apologize."

Javert just glared at him from across the room. "I wish to be set free, or left alone. Failing the one, kindly give me the other."

"Have it your way, then."

The door latched as Valjean took his icy leave, but where Javert expected to feel pleasure at the small victory, he found he felt nothing at all.

It took the Inspector longer than he would have cared to admit to eat the soup, but he was by this time hungry, and so he made the effort nevertheless. It was thin and he had no appetite for it; even so, much as he would have loved to complain, he doubted he could have kept down anything more substantial.

When he finished, he leaned into his pillow, wincing as the pressure exerted more force on his shoulder. The laudanum would help temporarily, he knew, but his suspicious nature extended to the drug's other effects; he had taken it once for a similar sort of injury, and the recollection of his reaction still brought him a sense of self-loathing decades after the fact.

He looked over at the lump the bandages made under his shirt; when even that much hurt to do, Javert gave in. He had to reach for the bottle with his bad arm, and that too pulled at his wound, but he grit his teeth and dealt with it. Javert wouldn't have called Valjean for help had he thought the effort of reaching would kill him. The Inspector grabbed the vial and the soup spoon. Pouring medicine from the first into the second one-handed was a tricky proposition, but Javert held the end of the spoon in his mouth and managed it.

Capping the bottle, Javert looked at the spoonful of laudanum and pursed his lips. Shaking his head, he took the utensil by the handle and drank it.

Immediately, the terribly bitter flavor burst across his tongue, and Javert gagged, but he forced himself to swallow. The aftertaste lingered, acrid and unpleasant, and it could not even do him the decency of starting to work immediately.

This time when he settled back into the pillows, it was with a sense of nervous anticipation. Gradually, as the room's shadows began to lengthen, the throbbing in his shoulder dulled and then ceased, to be replaced by a quiet feeling of euphoria. Though part of him knew the feeling was purely artificial, it was still dangerously pleasant to relax into. Before much longer, the soporific component of the drug kicked in, pressing heavily against his ribs, and he drifted peacefully to sleep.

* * *

The room was black as pitch when the Inspector sat bolt upright in bed, heart pounding, with the blankets clutched tight to his chest. There was a clatter - the tray and bowl had slid off the bed to the floor. In the dark, the nightmares took too long to dissipate, and he heard their echoes still after he awoke.

_A hospital room after dusk, the lamps dim and flickering, the beds empty but for one. The woman, frail, nearly bald, missing teeth - typical. The man beside her - hulking, deceptive, a liar and a thief - but then the woman was dead, apparently of fright, and the accusation rang in his ears - "You have killed this woman!"_

Javert buried his head in his hands and found his brow was slick with cold sweat. Why was it like this, that the drug managed to dredge his subconscious for everything he would rather forget? Not for the first time, Javert wondered what Valjean was thinking, bringing him into his house, but now it was Cosette who he thought of also. Why take him in when it was his fault the girl had no mother? How could anyone bear that irony? And why - he dug his hands deeper into the twisted blankets - was Valjean caring for her so many years later? What possessed him to keep his promise to Fantine, when there was no incentive for him to do so?

Javert let out a hissing breath and laid back down, drawing the quilt close to his chin. He felt like a child, but he could not shake the opium-laced dreams, full as they were of pain and fear. A knife in the back, breaking bones, hot pokers, guns which failed to misfire...

With a shuddering groan, he pulled the blankets over his head and curled into a ball. His shoulder had stopped hurting, but his psyche took its place. It would yet be a long night before morning arrived. 


	4. In which there are concessions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to let you all know that I have the rest of the story roughly outlined; currently, this is shaping up to be about 17 chapters, give or take a few as scenes develop. I have the first ten written, and will be working on the next today.

Hours passed, and the room lightened gradually. Buried where he was in the bedding, Javert let out only a muffled noise when Valjean knocked with breakfast. His fingers found the vial of laudanum where he had discarded it the night before, and his hand closed over it tightly.

"Good morning, Ja - Javert?" Valjean's voice turned to confusion. "Do you feel quite alright?"

By way of response, Javert just held out his hand grasping the bottle, the rest of him still hidden beneath quilts. From the other side of the room, Valjean frowned and stepped forward to take it.

"The laudanum?" he asked. "What -?"

Javert chose that moment to sit up, still slightly disoriented, but no less ornery for it. He smoothed his hair back with his unbound hand, before sighing heavily.

"If I didn't know otherwise, I'd say you tried to poison me," he began, "but I have had the misfortune of taking that particular medication before." He made a face of disgust. "It doesn't agree with me."

Valjean raised an eyebrow. "If you knew that, why did you take it?"

Javert's jaw clenched. Valjean's tone was not quite patronizing, but it still made him feel like a fool. Aware he was being petulant, he said, "Because my shoulder hurt and I wanted it not to."

Valjean nodded, though it was unclear whether this was in comprehension or as a pacifying measure.

"Are you well enough for food?" he inquired, pocketing the laudanum and setting down instead a tray laden with a bowl of porridge and fruit slices. "It's nothing special," Valjean added a touch self-consciously, "but we make do with it."

Javert pulled the tray closer. "I will eat," he said. "Though for yourself, I daresay you could afford better than to 'make do'."

Valjean shook his head. "The money I have acquired is for the poor, and for Cosette. I have little use for it, save to help the less fortunate."

Javert might have sniped something back, had not the memory from the night before returned to him. As it was, he ate ponderously before turning to look Valjean in the eye.

"Why do you still look after her, after all these years?" he asked.

If Valjean were surprised by the query, he did not show it. Instead he replied, "Because I made a promise to Fantine. And because I love her as though she were my own."

Javert shook his head. "You perplex me," he said.

Valjean exhaled. "I know."

He knelt to the floor to collect the dishes which had fallen in the night. If Javert expected to be questioned, he was disappointed; Valjean said nothing of it as he stood with the spilled tray and bowl. Javert finished the porridge and the pared slices of apple only to watch as Valjean, who wandered to the other side of the room, stared absently out the window into the garden.

Javert set down his spoon and looked the other man over with an empirical curiosity. Valjean's snow white hair glowed in the early morning sun, and with his back to him, the falling of shadows threw into relief some of the powerful muscles which usually his clothes managed to conceal. Javert huffed lightly when Valjean turned back around, a small smile playing across the man’s lips.

"I love to watch the birds in the trees," Valjean said as he collected the morning’s dishes the way he had the others. "They're such graceful creatures."

Javert only sat in silence as Valjean took his leave. For once, it felt his place to not offer comment.

* * *

The Inspector had expected to be spending much of the morning on his own, and so he was surprised to hear the soft knock he had come to associate with Valjean for the second time in less than an hour.

"If you're hoping I'll get the door, you're going to be disappointed," Javert called out dryly. "I don't see why you bother anyway, seeing as -"

The end of his sentence died on his lips when Valjean slipped through the door, shutting it behind him. Whatever had transpired, it had left him looking exceptionally drawn, a stark contrast from his earlier subdued but pleasant demeanor. Javert observed the change critically, head tilting ever so slightly to the side. Perhaps if he were quick-thinking, he could find an advantage to press.

"Inspector Javert," Valjean began, and it was not lost on Javert that this was the first time in his captivity during which Valjean had referred to him by his title. "There's a man here to see you. An officer," he added, and Javert nodded slowly as the shoe dropped.

"Beaulieu?" guessed the Inspector.

Tacitly, Valjean nodded the affirmative. "He says he's been going up and down the street, inquiring after you," Valjean explained.

Javert raised his eyebrows. "And, what did you tell him?"

"The truth," Valjean replied heavily. "That I came across you injured, and have spent the last few days seeing to your care."

Javert's mouth twisted sourly at the description - he was hardly an invalid - but wondered simultaneously what Valjean hoped to gain from this exchange.

"And now?" the Inspector inquired.

"He wants to see you."

"Do you mean to let him?"

Valjean sighed. "That is up to you."

Javert regarded him suspiciously.  "Is it?"

"Will you speak to him?"

Certain that it had to be a trap, but unable to see how, Javert hesitated.

"Send him in," he said a moment later.

Javert could have sworn Valjean winced, but if he had, the man regained control of his expression quickly.

"Very well."

Valjean approached the bed, and the Inspector berated himself for wanting to draw back, but then the man removed a small, silver key from his pocket - a key which Javert recognized. Wordlessly, Valjean unlocked the handcuffs chaining Javert to the bed, before handing him both key and cuffs alike.

"You'll be wanting those, I imagine."

The old convict turned then and left, leaving the Inspector gaping in his wake.

Valjean had shut the door when he exited, but this time, Javert could hear the sound of two people conversing on the other side of it.

"- for the wait, I was unsure if he would want visitors."

There was a laugh. "I'm sure he doesn't," came Beaulieu's cheerful voice, "but I'll speak to him anyway."

The door opened, and in strode Beaulieu, grinning, with Valjean pacing after him, clearly uneasy.

"Inspector!" Beaulieu exclaimed. "Is it ever good to clap eyes on you, sir!"

"You as well," Javert replied listlessly, his eyes fixed on Valjean, who was standing quietly just inside the door, his head bowed. Any second now, he expected him to bolt, slamming and locking the door behind him, but Valjean did not move.

Beaulieu's expression grew more serious. "If I may be frank, sir, I was worried when I went to the hospital and was told they hadn't seen hide nor hair of you. And when your landlady said she hadn't seen you either, well, I had to fear the worst."

Javert's eyes flashed in annoyance. "I can look after myself."

"Begging your pardon, sir, but from what I've gathered from your host, you would be dead in a back alley if he hadn't stepped in."

A thousand thoughts ran through Javert's head at once. The first, a protestation - _only because he knocked me unconscious before I could seek medical attention!_ \- followed by confusion - _Valjean still was not leaving, nor doing anything to prevent his imminent arrest_ \- which gave way to a spiraling abyss of desire and duty that howled _arrest him now!_

Triumph washed over him; this was Javert’s hour at last to see Valjean to the fate he deserved. He sat up, relishing the freedom of motion he was now afforded, and opened his mouth to give the order for Valjean's arrest.

"Beaulieu -"

The words were on the tip of his tongue - put this man in irons! - when a solitary detail caught his eye and came to distract his attention. Valjean did not move whatsoever. Even his eyes were closed now. The only exception was his lips, as he seemed to mouth a prayer silently to himself. And what did he pray, except perhaps that this cup might pass him by? It would not be the first time someone prayed thusly, and by it, Javert was unmoved - and yet.

_And yet, what?_

And yet - Valjean could have chosen at any point hitherto to wash his hands of the Inspector, whether by leaving him to bleed out in the street, or to let him succumb to delirium and fever, or to slip poison in his food, but he had not.

And yet - Valjean had not once responded to Javert's provocations with violence, though he most assuredly knew Javert would have no means of defense against it if he had.

And yet - nothing and no one forced Valjean to answer the door, or to reveal to Beaulieu that the Inspector was there in his home, save his own conscience.

And yet - that same conscience now kept Valjean pinned to the wall, assuredly frightened, but neither running nor preventing Javert from giving the command which would return him to prison. He had even given the Inspector the handcuffs.

Valjean was telling the truth. This realization, that Valjean had signed off on his own sentencing, crashed over Javert all at once, and his voice failed him.

"Inspector?" Beaulieu was asking. His voice sounded very far away, as if it came down a distant tunnel.

"Your pardon," Javert murmured. "I am not quite yet well." He hesitated over his next words. "Beaulieu..." he began, "Beaulieu, inform the Prefect that I will return to the office tomorrow. I am certain there will be no shortage of paperwork to occupy myself until my shoulder finishes healing."

"Yes, sir."

"That is all. Have Monsieur... Fauchelevent show you out."

"Sir."

Javert was fully cognizant of the fact that by now, Valjean was staring at him with a positively alarming expression of astonishment mingled with something like reverence, but he struggled more with the reality of whatever he had just done than he did with what Valjean thought of him. As Beaulieu took his leave, Valjean not far behind him, Javert stared into space, unable to reconcile his newfound understanding to the part of him which demanded he call Beaulieu back so as to drag Valjean to the courthouse.

Valjean left the bedroom door open when he exited this time, and so Javert could hear the polite exchange of pleasantries and eventual click of the front door shutting. Then everything was suddenly, terribly quiet.

When Valjean did not re-enter, the Inspector wondered if he had miscalculated, if even now Valjean was making his escape, running from the Rue Plumet as fast as his feet would carry him before the ruthless Inspector changed his mind. Slowly, Javert swung his legs over the side of the bed. They were sore from disuse, but as he stood, they seemed to hold his weight. Nevertheless, he leaned heavily against the dresser until he caught his balance.

He made his way to the door gradually, a combination of fatigue and caution, as he was unable to quite believe that he was no longer prisoner in Valjean's house. Javert paused at the threshold, his hand reaching out to steady himself against the framing.

Peering through the opening, he found himself looking into the salon; the room, brightly lit by the picture window, made for an odd contrast against Valjean, who sat on the sofa with his head in his hands and his shoulders shaking. He was visibly sobbing.

Javert quickly withdrew back into the bedroom, fidgeting with his collar. Once again Valjean defied his expectations, but he had even less idea how to manage this situation than any other with which he had been presented. He took a deep breath and waited what felt like an appropriate amount of time before he looked back around the corner. By now, though Valjean was still slumped over where he sat, he appeared to have composed himself somewhat, and so with more bravado than he felt, Javert crossed the room to the sofa.

He paused at the arm of it, aware that there was a boundary and sure neither whether he was welcome nor what he might gain by crossing it. Valjean made no move to stop him, however, so Javert sat down. He left a healthy gap between them, but he also did not sit all the way against the other end. This was the extent of his olive branch, and it would span no further on its own.

"Your pardon," Valjean murmured, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I am not usually given to hysterics, but..." He gestured vaguely.

"You need not ask my pardon for that," Javert replied stiffly.

Valjean glanced at him sidelong. "You know, of course," he began, "that I shall have to ask you -"

"Why?" Javert gave a brief, humorless laugh. "When I figure it out, I'll tell you."

Valjean shook his head. "Your man, Beaulieu, knocked on the door and I thought - I nearly fainted - _I thought_ I was to be returned to the galleys, but you just..."

"I could have done so, if it would have confused you less."

"Ah." Valjean gave a watery chuckle. "Thank you, but I'm rather grateful you didn't."

"Hmm."

At this proximity, Javert could see his earlier observation was incorrect. Although Valjean was now indeed dry-eyed, he trembled; it was almost imperceptible, but there was a tremor in his hands that became apparent when he stopped moving. Javert wondered at it, for surely Valjean had few things he need fear, strong as he was, but plainly, the affair that morning had shaken him to the core. It made it all the more incredible that Valjean apparently had intended to walk into his own arrest with open arms.

Perhaps aware that he was being scrutinized, Valjean turned and looked more directly at Javert than he had in some time.

"I'm sorry, I've been a poor host," he said. "Can I get you anything? It will be noon before long, and you had an early breakfast."

Javert snorted. "Your gratitude is quickly coming to resemble obsequiousness. Thank you, but no. I am not hungry."

Valjean nodded quietly. "Neither am I." A moment later, he sighed, saying, "Ja - Inspector, I'm sorry, I -" but Javert interrupted him.

"You keep saying that - 'I'm sorry' - but has it occurred to you that of the two of us, perhaps you aren't the one who needs to apologize?"

Valjean regarded him quietly as Javert tried to sift through his twisting thoughts.

"You saved my life. I hate to admit it, but it is true. All this time, you have done good, and I have refused to see it, because it didn't suit me to think a criminal could change their ways. I have sought to undermine you at every turn, and... and I could not blame you if you locked me back up now, because you are right to fear me, or at least to fear what I represent."

Valjean's eyes had widened at this, and he shook his head. "I could not do that."

"I know. But regardless, I could not blame you for it."

There was the faintest resemblance of a smile in his voice when Valjean replied, "Your word has always been absolute. I do not expect you would break it now."

Standing abruptly, Javert smoothed his hair back.

"I should be going," he said. "I'll not do you the disservice of intruding on your hospitality any longer."

"Javert -"

Valjean was interrupted by the door, which opened to reveal Cosette and Toussaint on the step outside.

"Papa! I - oh!" Cosette paused, noticing Javert at the edge of the sofa. "Good day, Monsieur. You are feeling better, then?"

"Yes, thank you," the Inspector said tightly.

"Will you join us for tea?" Cosette asked, making her way through the foyer and dining room. Reaching the kitchen, she called back, "Toussaint found some lovely cakes at the market today!"

"I -" said Javert, but Valjean held up his hand.

"Trust me," he advised, "there's no arguing with her."

Javert narrowed his eyes, rather suspicious that Valjean would allow him to eat with his family, but he also lacked the energy to contest the issue.

"Very well," he agreed. "Tea. And then I will take my leave."

Valjean nodded his acquiescence, standing.

"It is well," he said. "Poor repayment for the gift you have given me, but at least you need not leave without refreshments."

As Valjean went to pass him, Javert reached out to grab him by the sleeve, drawing him close.

"It was hardly a gift," he murmured in the shorter man's ear. "You saved my life. I have only repaid that debt."

Valjean turned to look at him, studying his expression.

"Very well, then," he said at last. "How do you take your tea?"

Javert lifted his chin. "No milk, no sugar." He added a, "thank you," as an afterthought.

Valjean beckoned him toward the dining room, which was a simple enough affair. Cosette was laying cups and saucers on the white linen, chattering animatedly with Toussaint, and then when he entered, with Valjean as well. Javert, for his part, was silent. He merely watched, feeling terribly out of place. To what end had Valjean encouraged him to take his daughter's invitation? To what end had Javert accepted it?

He seated himself automatically when Valjean indicated a chair, and likewise took hold of the offered tea cup from the girl with a brief nod of acknowledgment. The tea was good, but he barely tasted it as the sense of not-belonging increased. Valjean appeared more at ease now, drinking from his own cup and asking about his daughter's morning, but Javert could not miss the occasional glance he threw the Inspector's direction. It did not speak of mistrust, exactly, but there was uncertainty in those eyes, as perhaps Valjean wondered if at any moment, Javert might spill his secrets to his household.

Or perhaps, he mused silently, Valjean feared that the Inspector's presence alone was enough to reveal the story of his past, that if his daughter looked too closely, she might come to wonder just how her father came to be acquainted with a police Inspector, and might perhaps begin to put two and two together. For his part, the Inspector could hardly bear to look at Cosette, for to do so filled him with shame and the recollection of a dying woman's shriek.

He declined a piece of cake when he was offered one, and it was with no small degree of relief that the tea was concluded, and Toussaint began gathering up the dishes. Javert stood, and a moment later, so did Valjean.

"Thank you for your hospitality," he said to Cosette, forcing himself to meet her eyes.

"You're very welcome," she smiled. "Will you come and visit us sometime?"

Javert's eyes widened slightly as he fumbled for an answer.

"I -"

"You would be welcome," Valjean interjected, sparing him the trouble, "if you wished to stop by."

Javert wondered if either of them really believed that was true, but he said only, "I will consider it, then."

"Let me get your coat, Monsieur," said Toussaint, slipping around the table to fetch the garment from her bedroom.

"You will return to your apartment?" Valjean asked.

Javert nodded.

"And to your work tomorrow?"

Javert nodded more slowly, wondering as he did so if it was a good idea. Could he still look his superiors in the eye after this?

“I told Beaulieu I would,” replied the Inspector. “And you know I keep my promises.”

This time, it was Valjean who nodded, some of the tension leaving his face as he recognized Javert’s implicit reassurance. Toussaint reentered with the Inspector’s greatcoat draped over her arm.

Handing it to him, she said, “My apologies, Monsieur. I’d have darned this tear had I known you were leaving us today.”

“Hardly your fault, Madame,” Javert murmured. “My departure comes as something of a surprise to both of us. I thank you for your concern, but I can mend it myself.”

He took another look around the room, at Toussaint, and Cosette in her dress, and finally at Valjean, who simply smiled. The feeling of suffocation was well and truly overwhelming now, and Javert resorted to nodding once more, quickly, before backing out of the dining room into the foyer.

His hand was on the front door knob when Valjean caught up to him. In the background, he could make out the sound of Toussaint and Cosette clearing the table.

"I know you are eager to be on your way," Valjean murmured, as Javert continued to stand with his back to him, facing the door. "I just wanted to let you know that I meant what I said - the invitation is open, should you find yourself in the neighborhood.”

The Inspector inhaled slowly. "And I meant what I said - I will consider it."

Then he pulled open the door and stepped out into the garden.


	5. In which Javert is ruminative

Stepping onto the sidewalk in the afternoon sun was a surreal experience. Javert had not genuinely expected, short of some sort of miracle, to be outside again under his own power, and so to do so felt strange. Stranger still was the knowledge that he was leaving Valjean inside, free, and without repercussions for any of his actions. Something twisted at it in Javert's gut, and his jaw clenched.

It did not take him long to hail a passing carriage. A few coins exchanged hands, and moments later, the vehicle changed course, clattering down the cobblestones in the direction of the Inspector's apartment. Javert stared out the window, seeing nothing. The memory of cool fingers running across his shoulder came back to him, and he shivered without realizing it.

He should be dead. This thought revolved in his head, circulating around and around. By rights, Valjean should have killed him. Javert pulled at his whiskers in frustration. As the carriage pulled to a stop, the Inspector disembarked, nodding his thanks to the driver before looking up at the forbidding mass which was the apartment block.

His landlady met him at the door.

"Your rent is late," she said by way of greeting.

"I will have it for you presently," the Inspector replied, pushing past her.

His quarters were up the stairs on the second floor. It took him a minute of fumbling with his coat, which he had carried rather than worn, to find his keys and open the door, and then a minute more to pull his purse from under the mattress and fish out enough to cover the month's lodging. He placed it in the impatient woman's hand before shutting the door and closing himself in his room. He stood there for a long moment, leaning his forehead against the jamb, before eventually turning to survey his apartment instead.

The place was cheap, and it was clean, and that was all which the Inspector required. He spent little enough time there to warrant more space, and the sterile whitewashed walls were the kind to which he was accustomed. There was a stove for heat and for what little cooking the Inspector did, and a table, and a bed. A small chest of drawers was sufficient for holding his wardrobe. Javert sighed and locked the door before crossing to his bed, where he sat down and stared at his hands.

What was wrong with him? Something had to be, for he was not himself. His shoulder twinged, and he rubbed it irritably. This drew his attention to his wrist, which was red and sore where the metal handcuff had rubbed against skin. Javert shook his head. He deserved that, he supposed.

The room was very quiet. Usually, this was a good thing. Just then, however, it was curiously oppressive, as if in the silence, someone or something was listening instead to the buzz of Javert's thoughts. He shook himself and stood, but he put the kettle on even so, if only to provide the room a bit of masking noise.

A glance in the mirror made the Inspector grimace. Flyaway hairs stuck out of his queue at odd angles, and his whiskers had overtaken their appropriate borders. Frowning, he poured some water in the basin and withdrew his shaving box from the dresser. Mixing up a lather with his brush, Javert swabbed the thick soap over the hair on his cheeks and jowls before picking up his razor. The next few minutes were a breath of calm as he pared back his whiskers, and he exhaled evenly at the familiarity of the exercise and the feeling of control it provided. He also spared a minute to retie his queue, going through his long hair with a comb before pulling it back with a black ribbon.

Satisfied now with his appearance, Javert instead turned his attention to his greatcoat, which was torn across the back of it where the thief in the alley had caught him with his blade. A frugal man, the Inspector preferred to do his own repairs when he was able. He had a small kit for just such purposes, and was able with a little effort to mend the rip with a needle and thread.

Donning his coat, Javert likewise located his top hat and gloves and prepared to leave. He stepped outside only to realize he hadn’t the faintest idea where he was going, but although he had thought he would be pleased to be back in his own quarters, he had found instead that it was no less suffocating there than it had been at number fifty-five. His solution, then, was to keep moving, at least until he could sort himself out.

It was by this time well into the afternoon. The streets were crowded as people walked to and fro, and carriages and carts alike wound their way through the city. An intimidating figure at the best of times, Javert’s present mood infused his aura with a miasma of _leave me alone_ , and so passersby stepped to the side as he passed. It was arguably hot in the sun with his coat, but he was well used to it. Stepping briskly, Inspector Javert had gone four blocks before he noticed his feet were carrying him towards the river.

The _traversée de Paris_ , the Seine as it wrapped its way through houses and along boulevards and under bridges, was beautiful where it sparkled in the daylight. Javert leaned against the stone railing of the Pont Notre Dame, absorbed in his thoughts. Valjean was like the Seine, he decided: pleasant on the surface, dangerous underneath, and inviting enough to fool an unwitting man into forgetting he was dealing with a force of nature.

Scowling, the Inspector knocked a pebble from the railing and watched as it fell, striking the water with a sound he could not hear over the pedestrian traffic. It sank, a wave of concentric ripples spreading across the river’s surface where it had hit. Javert’s scowl deepened as he decided he’d gotten his metaphor backwards - he was the river, and Valjean was the pebble, which innocuous though it may seem would leave behind traces that changed everything. The Inspector rolled his eyes and shook his head; he was neither writer nor poet, and his interest in such matters was fleeting at best. Still, the underlying notion resonated; everything was different now.

He was a liar, something which he had never been before, but that morning something had possessed him to choose to hide Valjean’s identity from Beaulieu and had spoken an untruth in its place. The knowledge rankled, wore on his nerves, but not nearly so much as did the fact that Valjean had shown himself to be a good and trustworthy man. Of everything to occur in the previous seventy-two hours, this above every other indignity burned Javert’s pride the most. Not only did it elevate his opponent, but it called Javert’s own standing into question as well. How could he be both just and moral if justice demanded Valjean’s arrest and morality thundered for his release? And, wondered Javert, how could personal discretion ever be permissible when there was no standard against which to measure it, no means by which to ensure that one’s discretion was unbiased? It was a quandary, one in which the Inspector was stuck fast.

His superiors would want his report first thing in the morning. Javert’s fist clenched as he imagined himself standing before the Prefect, words full of the lies and half-truths it would require to take Valjean out of the story and replace him with M. Fauchelevent. Was that what he had become, then? Willing to lie for no purpose other than to shield a convict from suspicion? Perhaps it was better to admit to his error, denounce Valjean once and for all, and choose to stand by his principles.

Bitterly, Javert knew beneath it all that he would never do that. In spite of the great personal danger to himself, Valjean had tended to him, done what he could for the Inspector’s wounds, and let him go. To betray that trust now would make Javert a liar twice-over, and neither did he think he could be so cruel as to give the man his freedom only to snatch it away at the last second. Javert was many things, but he did not believe cruel to be one of them.

Staring into the water below, a third course of action occurred to him, one which required no further betrayal of either mercy or duty. He chuckled darkly to himself as he considered it, but there were altogether too many people about just then to act. If ever he were to take his own life, it would not be for an audience.

Javert drummed his fingers on the guardrail briefly, before he turned on his heel and headed back the way he had come, towards his apartment. He was no closer to knowing what to do, but he felt somewhat calmer about it, centered, like the still point in the water from whence the ripples originate.

* * *

Javert arrived at the police depot early the following morning, eager to avoid answering questions from anyone but his superiors. No one else was yet waiting for an appointment in the lobby, for which he was grateful, and so he had to speak to no one between entering the building and entering his office.

Ensconced inside, Javert shut his door all but a crack, open enough so he could hear any activity in the hall, and then he examined his desk. There was always paperwork to be done, but in his absence, it had multiplied. With a quiet groan of irritation, the Inspector sank into his leather chair and began to sort through reports and notices, stacking them according to their priority. Most of it was trivial - small robberies, cases of harassment, the like. A few of the accounts he deemed more serious, as they spoke of a growing unrest, fueling the trade of illegal firearms amongst the disenfranchised. Javert frowned, lines creasing in his forehead as he read through these. He was still sitting like that nearly an hour later when his door swung open.

“Good day, Inspector!” came the jovial greeting.

“Beaulieu,” Javert sighed, sitting up tiredly. “Good day.”

Beaulieu was eating a pastry, and Javert looked on in distaste as he got crumbs on his uniform and brushed them to the floor.

“I have just been speaking with Gisquet,” said the young officer, “and have given him my report on the incident. I imagine you will want to speak with him next.”

“I would prefer to get this over with,” Javert agreed, standing. “Have you looked at any of this?” He gestured toward the mess on his desk.

“No, sir.”

“Mmm.” Javert rubbed his temples. “It would seem that the cholera outbreak is beginning to have the effect Gisquet feared - the people grow uneasy, and it is allowing insurgents to gain a foothold. Spread the word: we are to investigate any crate or package which we have reasonable evidence to believe could be carrying munitions.”

“Yes, sir,” Beaulieu nodded, going to take his leave.

“And Beaulieu?”

The officer stopped in his tracks and looked back.

Javert stepped around his desk, lowering his voice. “Break up any loitering group of five or more. If they're not causing trouble, don't make any, but let's not make it easy for traitors to congregate.”

Beaulieu nodded his understanding. “Sir.”

When he had left, Javert stood for a moment, straightening his uniform. Then, once he was certain he looked immaculate, he too exited his office, turning down the hall to see the Prefect. It was not a meeting he was looking forward to, uncertain as he was of what he could say and still preserve his integrity.

The Prefect, by name of Gisquet, was a tall man with dark hair and perceptive eyes. Even-tempered and knowledgable about his work, he was a superior whom Inspector Javert respected. Reaching his door, Javert knocked; a voice called to enter, and the Inspector obeyed.

“Ahhh, Inspector,” the Prefect said, looking up from a piece of parchment with a smile. “I just finished speaking to officer Beaulieu.”

Javert bowed stiffly. “So he told me.”

“I am glad to see you return to work. We were concerned when we received no correspondence following your injury.”

“Ah.” Javert straightened, staring at the back wall of the room. “Yes. That was an... oversight on my part, to not have sent a letter. It was irresponsible.”

Gisquet waved this away. “I've no doubt you were unwell, Beaulieu was able to fill in a few of the blanks for me. I'm hoping you'll do the rest.”

Still gazing at the wall, Javert nodded. “I shall certainly endeavor to try, Monsieur.”

“Very good.” His superior leaned back in his chair. “Give me the short version, Javert. I trust you can give me the rest in your written report.”

“As you say.” Javert took a deep breath. “Officer Beaulieu and I were looking into your informant’s claims that an apparently poor man was distributing undue amounts of charity in the district surrounding the Rue Plumet. For four days, we saw very little. On the fifth, a woman’s exclamation drew our attention to a disturbance around the corner. As there was nothing to necessitate staying put, I told Beaulieu we would investigate.”

The Prefect nodded slowly as Javert continued.

“We interrupted a thief threatening a tavern girl with a knife. There was a fight, in which I was injured.”

“But you saw fit to return to your duties rather than report to the hospital?”

“Yes, Monsieur.”

At this, Gisquet stood and paced around behind where Javert stood.

“May I assume the patch in your uniform represents where you were attacked?”

“That would be correct, Monsieur.”

The Prefect clucked in something which might have been concern.

“That is hardly a small wound, Inspector.”

Javert nodded. “That is also correct, sir. However, the blade was sharp and at the time, I did not feel how bad it was. I believed I could wait the last hour to complete our lookout before seeing a doctor. It did not take long to learn of my... misjudgment.”

“Hmm.” Gisquet returned to his chair and frowned at Javert. “So you returned to the Rue Plumet.”

“I did. And not long after, I passed out in the street. I probably would have died, had not...”

“...Had not a man by name of... Fauchelevent brought you into his home?” finished his superior, referring to what must have been Beaulieu’s report on his desk.

“That is... correct,” Javert responded, feeling his stomach clench. “He called a doctor, and saw to it that I was cared for in my... convalescence.”

Gisquet regarded him thoughtfully. “Javert, I admit myself surprised by your lack of foresight in this matter, but then, in the heat of the moment, I suppose it could happen to anyone. Beaulieu writes that upon arriving at... number fifty-five, he got into a conversation with Monsieur Fauchelevent, wherein the man admitted to being the very same philanthropist the two of you were investigating.”

Javert quickly turned a splutter into a cough. Leave it to Valjean to tangle himself even further into a mess. “Yes, I had drawn the same conclusion,” said the Inspector, because he couldn't very well deny it.

The Prefect spread his hands. “And?”

“I believe we may be confident that there is no money laundering occurring in that residence.”

“So you had no reason for suspicion?”

Javert hesitated. “I am always suspicious,” he replied, and the Prefect chuckled. “But I think we can rest assured that there is nothing... objectionable happening at number fifty-five.”

“So you do not feel this Fauchelevent need be brought in for questioning?”

Javert could just imagine what Valjean would think if a group of officers showed up at his door to bring him for interrogation. Tense, and not only a little sick to his stomach, Javert shook his head. “It seems like a pointless exercise, especially when our resources are needed elsewhere.”

Nodding, Gisquet stood again. “Beaulieu seemed to feel the same. If you have no objections, I am content to call it case closed.”

“None whatsoever.”

“Good.” Gisquet held out his hand, and the Inspector shook it, a little awkwardly. “Dismissed.”

Javert turned to leave, and was at the door when his superior called after him.

“Inspector?”

Javert glanced back.

“I'm glad you're alright.”

Letting out a huff of air, Javert smiled slightly. “Thank you, Monsieur.”

Once back in his office, the Inspector dropped into his seat and allowed himself a moment of self-pity, holding his head in his hands. How was he supposed to focus when Valjean occupied every one of his thoughts? Javert shifted in his chair and picked up the nearest report. He read the first sentence three times before he registered any of it. Useless.

He had done it, had not only omitted any mention of Valjean’s true identity from his report, but had actively protected him, had talked the Prefect out of demanding responses to questions Valjean had no safe answers for. Javert was ashamed, but knew he could have done no differently. The very idea of being sent back to the Rue Plumet to explain that he needed Valjean to answer a few questions, and of the fear which he knew he would see in Valjean’s face, horrified him. Why, he could not say.

Barely suppressing a shudder, Javert forced his attention back to the paper in his hand. It outlined a trade dispute amongst a handful of guild members. His grip on his pen was painfully tight as he scratched out a recommendation, but he managed it. Setting the sheet to the side, he picked up the next, and so he continued as the shadows changed lengths.

It was early evening before he finished, but satisfied at last with what he had accomplished, Javert picked up a stack of finished paperwork and left. He paused long enough to hand the papers off to the appropriate officers, and then stepped out into Paris, ablaze with the setting sun.


	6. In which there is a beginning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit shorter of an update, but as the title says - it's a beginning.

It was hard to say when exactly Javert realized he was not walking in the direction of his apartment. Perhaps the thought occurred when he turned the wrong direction at the Pont Notre Dame. Perhaps, distracted as he was, he did not notice where his legs had carried him until he turned onto the Rue Plumet itself. Or, perhaps some part of him knew from the moment he left the police station that he had another errand to run before returning home for the night. Whatever the case may have been, he was not entirely surprised with himself when he stopped in front of number fifty-five.

The Inspector gazed wearily at the iron fence caging in the front yard, which turned into a brick wall at the ends of the property. In the cool evening air, the garden beyond the gate was tranquil, and nestled amid the trees, the house sat quiet and dark. A faint light coming from the salon window suggested that the fire was burning low in the grate; no one was home. Javert frowned. Surely Valjean would not have invited him to return had he been planning only to run from the scene, but then, maybe he had not expected the Inspector to take him up on his offer.

No, that sat poorly with him. In keeping with his character though it may have been, Javert’s intuition told him Valjean would not have run this time. More probably, he and his household were out on one of their charity expeditions. Javert lifted his eyes a little at this, but let it go. He was just beginning to wonder if perhaps he should come back another day (and part of him wanted very much to go before he said or did something else he would regret), when he heard voices approaching from the other end of the street.

The Inspector stepped away from the fence and into what light remained. The last thing he wanted to do was give anyone the impression he was lying in wait. As the voices came nearer, Javert could make out three people in the twilight: Valjean, Cosette, and Toussaint, likely as not returning from church. Valjean carried a lantern to illuminate their path; seeing a figure standing in the street, he raised it higher.

Cosette let out a soft exclamation of alarm and stepped behind her father, and it only then occurred to Javert how severe he must look, wrapped in his greatcoat in the darkening night. He raised his hand in greeting.

“Evening.”

“Javert?” Valjean’s expression was equal parts incredulous and disbelieving, and, the Inspector noticed grimly, a little bit frightened. “I - Good evening. What - Are you on duty?”

Javert coughed uncomfortably. “No, no, I won’t be on duty for at least another week, until my shoulder is fully mended. No, actually, I just finished doing some paperwork at the station house, and, as you put it, found myself in the neighborhood.”

Valjean relaxed visibly throughout the progression of this little speech, and actually smiled shyly at the last.

“Ah. Well then, by all means, join us. Cosette, Toussaint, would the two of you kindly put on some water for tea?”

Cosette, who by now had recognized the Inspector for who he was, lit up.

“Of course, papa! Monsieur, welcome back - I do beg your pardon, I’m afraid I did not recognize you at first in the dark. We will have drinks ready in just a minute.”

The two women hurried through the gate, leaving Javert alone with Valjean in the street.

“You needn’t put yourselves to any trouble,” the Inspector murmured. “I imagine you were rather hoping not to see me again for a while. Or at all,” he added.

Valjean shook his head. “I must confess, I am surprised, Javert, but I am happy you came.”

Javert raised his eyebrows at this. “I thought you might want to know that I made my report this morning.”

It was not lost on Javert the way in which Valjean tensed, or how his grip on the lantern tightened. “Oh?”

“Insofar as I can tell, the Prefect is eager to drop the case. You shouldn't have anything to worry about.”

The relief in Valjean’s sigh was palpable. “Thank you, Javert. And I take it you didn't... er...”

“Say anything?” Javert supplied blithely. “No. As if I could.”

“Well,” Valjean laughed softly. “Won't you come in? It does neither of us any good to loiter in the darkness.”

Javert inclined his head, more willing a participant than he had anticipated. “If you wish it.”

“I do.”

Valjean led him through the gate and stood at his side. He even made a motion like he might put his hand on the Inspector’s arm, but decided against it. Instead, he gestured at the garden.

“I don't tend it much,” he explained as they worked their way towards the house. More light shone then through the windows, brightening the path. “The flowers mostly grow on their own, with no need for coaxing. Sometimes, though, I will sit in the sun and trim back the grasses.” A reminiscent smile crossed his face as he looked at his work, a smile which was intimate enough to make Javert uncomfortable again, certain he was intruding on a private moment. Valjean turned to include him, however. “I love the flowers,” was all he said.

“You were a pruner once, were you not?” Javert murmured, well aware of the answer and yet suddenly reluctant for this curious conversation to end.

“In Faverolles,” Valjean agreed. “But that was a lifetime ago.”

“Valjean -” began the Inspector, but he was interrupted as the front door opened, a shaft of light spilling out across the paving stones.

“Papa,” Cosette called. “Are you coming?”

“Coming,” Valjean replied, his voice now laced with an emotion Javert could not place. As the pair moved once more toward the door, Valjean glanced over to him. “You were saying?”

“I - I'm not sure,” Javert replied, a slight shiver going through him. They walked the rest of the way into the house and the dining room in silence, but Javert wondered if perhaps he were not the only one unwilling to bring an end to that brief, easy companionship.

Toussaint was serving Cosette her tea when the two men entered and seated themselves. The Inspector chose the chair to Valjean’s side, not certain he wanted to sit anywhere where the other man could keep looking at him.

“It's an herbal blend,” said Toussaint, pouring tea into two more china cups. “A soothing drink for this time of night.”

There was a silence as everyone sipped at the warm brew, but, Javert reflected, of all the silent meals he had been subjected to in that house, this one felt by far the most relaxed. Eventually, Valjean set down his empty cup, turning to face Javert, who in response set his own cup on its saucer.

“You were out this evening,” the Inspector remarked.

Valjean nodded. “We take bread and blankets over to St. Étienne a few nights of the week.”

Cosette looked up from her tea, which she had been drinking somewhat pensively. “There are many who need it,” she said, fixing Javert with an especially ponderous look. “Children, mothers of children, the sick. It is important work, Monsieur.”

Javert found himself nodding in agreement, but there was something unsettling in the way she looked at him, as if she were trying very hard to remember something. Another chill, different from the one in the garden, passed over him.

“It is late,” he said, turning to Valjean. “I must head back to my apartment.”

Valjean ducked his head in understanding. “Of course. It was good of you to stop by.”

“Don't thank me,” Javert said, standing. “It will only embarrass the both of us.”

With a sort of humor, Valjean conceded the point. “Well,” he said only. And then, “Perhaps... if you find you get off at a reasonable hour tomorrow evening you might stop by again? I have a chess set which I haven't touched in ages, and I think I might like to play.”

Javert snorted. “You will find my skill for games lacking, but we shall see. If I am not flooded with paperwork, I will... consider it.”

“Wonderful.” Valjean smiled, and it lit up his entire face. “Have a good evening, Javert.”

“And you.” He turned to the others. “Goodnight Madame, Mademoiselle.”

They echoed the sentiment, Cosette still regarding him intently, and the Inspector was somewhat relieved to step out of the room and then into the cool of night.

Javert’s pace was clipped, but not unduly hurried as he made his way down the street. The lamps were lit by now, shining like solitary beacons, and they were appreciated even if the Inspector had little to fear of darkness. He was used to it, could disappear into it if need be. That night things were quiet, and though it was something of a lengthy walk back to his quarters, it gave him time to think.

Valjean had twice now invited him back to the Rue Plumet, with no apparent expectation of anything other than goodwill. The Inspector’s distrustful instincts searched everywhere for an ulterior motive, but Valjean had what he wanted - Javert’s silence. There was no logical reason for his continuing kindness besides a genuine desire for company.

And it was, Javert reflected, almost nice. His desire for social stimulus was negligible, but Valjean managed to be both reserved and intriguing, a puzzle which the Inspector couldn't quite fit together. He shook his head as he let himself into his apartment; whatever had come over him was strange indeed.


	7. In which there is a conversation and a threat

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alternately titled, in which the author played chess with herself, and confused the heck out of her younger brother.

The next day dragged. From the moment he arrived at the police station, Javert was on edge, checking his pocket-watch every ten minutes for the first hour. He very nearly brushed a stack of files to the floor after an officer brought them in; he had no mind for nor interest in more paperwork. Instead, he leaned back in his chair and ran his hands through his hair, wincing when the action pulled at the bandages around his shoulder. 

His face pinched with agitation - damn the injury! It was scarcely his second day back and he was already tired of sitting inside. He looked over at the window. Outdoors, it was a beautiful summer day, and the blue sky was virtually cloudless. How could anyone expect him just to read through reports when he could be doing almost anything else? It was exactly the sort of morning which rabble-rousers would be using to stir up trouble - surely the Prefect needed everyone on duty he could get. With a mutter of discontent, Javert sat forward and returned to filling out reports. At least that evening he could go and -

The Inspector set his pen down slowly. If he were honest with himself, which he always strove to be, he was actually looking forward to visiting Valjean. That had to be inappropriate. The man may have saved Javert’s life, but Javert had settled that score, and he was still a convict, not the sort a man of his position had any business making social calls with. He fiddled with his pen, turning it over in his hands as he deliberated. 

Would it be better not to go? Maybe. If he failed to show up, perhaps Valjean would be offended enough not to invite him back. On the other hand, the blasted man might worry something had happened. With his luck, Valjean might even think to show up at the station house looking for him. The thing to do, he decided, was to go, but to firmly decline any further invitations. 

The hours passed sluggishly, now for a different set of reasons. Half of him dreaded what would doubtless be a difficult conversation come that evening. The other half could not shake a sense of nervous anticipation at the idea of seeing Valjean again. Both emotions filled him with guilt, and the hands of his watch crawled onward. 

At last, a distant bell chimed the hour, and mechanically, Javert stood. He was on his way out when he happened to pass officer Beaulieu in the hall.

“Ah, Inspector,” said his subordinate.

Pausing, Javert turned back to face him, arching an eyebrow.

“I only thought you should know that I have had the others begin to implement the changes we discussed yesterday. It is difficult; the insurgents are well-loved by the people, and proving anything against them has been a trick.”

Javert nodded in agreement. “The biggest proof shall be uncovering arms or gunpowder. I have no doubt that there are shopkeepers and tavern-owners alike who are opening their back rooms to these people. Be observant, but do not move without proof. If we begin demanding access to private property only to find nothing, people will grow angrier, and our job will grow harder.”

“Understood, sir. Good evening.”

“Good evening,” Javert returned, before turning and leaving. The conversation was a welcome distraction, and he puzzled over how best to manage his officers through what he sensed was a growing situation. 

Lost as he was in thought, he wound up at the Rue Plumet sooner than he had counted on. He wavered in the street, suddenly uncertain that he should have come at all, but in placing a hand on the gate, he found it unlocked and knew himself to be expected. He did not have the fortitude to leave after that. The door swung open at his touch, and with a sigh, Javert made his way up to the front portico of number fifty-five. 

The knocker had scarcely hit the door twice when Toussaint opened it.

“Oh, Monsieur, welcome,” she said. “Please, come in, Monsieur Fauchelevent is in the salon.”

Javert bowed his head in recognition before stepping into the foyer. At Toussaint’s insistence, he shed his coat, though to do so left him with a distinct sense of vulnerability. As promised, the Inspector rounded the corner to find Valjean standing in front of the fireplace, running a dust cloth along a silver candlestick, which in turn rested on the mantle. 

“Good evening,” said Javert, as coolly as he could manage. 

Valjean looked up from his task with a wide smile.

“Good evening, Javert. I wasn't quite sure you'd come.”

“That makes two of us,” the Inspector replied. “But for better or worse, here I am.”

“Please, have a seat,” said Valjean, gesturing toward one of two armchairs, which were drawn close around the coffee table. A wooden box rested on the tabletop, and Valjean turned his attention to it as Javert sat. The box held chess pieces, carved alternately out of dark and light wood. Valjean tugged the second armchair closer to sit in, and proceeded to arrange the pieces on the board. “Would you care for a drink?” he asked, glancing up. 

Javert shook his head. “Thank you, but I think I've had my fill of tea.”

“Something stronger, then?” Valjean offered. His steel blue eyes fixed the Inspector in place, and suggested it would be rude to refuse.

“If you are having something,” Javert said at last. His heartbeat fluttered high in his chest, and he took a deep breath to still whatever emotion rattled in his veins. He was not sure now that it was nervousness. 

Apparently oblivious to this, Valjean merely smiled again and stood, crossing to a console table next to the door. A decanter and a few glasses sat on a tray. Valjean poured a generous amount of a ruby-colored wine into two of the glasses and returned to the chairs, where he handed one to the Inspector.

“It is nothing especially fine,” he warned, taking a sip of his own drink, “but it is made outside the city, and I am happier to buy from local merchants than expensive imports.”

Javert snorted as he took a sip himself. “That doesn't surprise me in the least. But it's not bad.”

Valjean’s smile was smaller but softer as he sat back down. 

“Shall we?” he asked, gesturing to the chess board.

“Which color will you play?” Javert asked, studying the set.

Valjean rotated the board so that the lighter pieces were in front of the Inspector.

“You’re the guest,” he said. “You go first.”

“Hmmph.” Javert looked impassively at the layout before moving a pawn. “I have little skill for this game,” he warned.

“We will be well-matched, then,” Valjean chuckled, also moving a pawn.

“And why,” Javert mused thoughtfully, “would you invite me to play a game you yourself are poor at?” He reached down to capture Valjean’s pawn with his own.

“Because,” Valjean replied, capturing Javert’s pawn in turn, “we have had little enough chance to talk, and I thought the tactician in you might enjoy this.”

“Hmmm,” Javert hummed, sliding another pawn onto the board. “I see. So this is a bribe, to get me to talk.”

Valjean moved a knight and glanced up to meet the Inspector’s gaze. “If you must think of this in such terms.”

Javert narrowed his eyes as he slid his pawn forward another space. “Very well. I suppose you had something in mind?”

Valjean hesitated, licking his lips ever so slightly as he considered his next move. He settled for sliding his bishop next to Javert’s pawn. “Not exactly. Don't you ever just sit and chat?”

“Not exactly.” Javert glared at the encroaching black pieces before sliding another pawn forward. “People only talk to me when they want something.”

“You've been in check for a turn now and didn't notice,” Valjean interjected, pointing to the diagonal path between his bishop and Javert’s king.

“Dammit,” the Inspector growled. “Aren't you supposed to call it when that happens?”

Valjean shrugged helplessly. “I only just noticed, myself,” he admitted. “I told you I wasn't very good at this.”

Javert sighed. “Shall we give it another go?” 

“If you like.” 

The Inspector returned the pieces to their first positions and spun the board around. “Your turn to start.”

“Very well.” Valjean slid the pawn on the end forward two spaces. “How was your day?”

“You're asking me about my day?” Javert asked disbelievingly. When Valjean only looked at him, Javert sighed. “It was head-achingly dull. Nothing but piles of reports to sift through.” He stared at the chessboard before shaking his head and jumping a knight over one of his pawns.

“I'm sorry to hear that,” Valjean said carefully, pushing out a castle. “Though it's probably best to take it slowly while you heal.”

Javert groaned. “That's what everyone has said. I do not require a pity-party.” Moving his knight again, he said, “What about you? What did you do with your day?”

Apparently pleased to be asked, Valjean smiled again. “Very little,” he answered. “Cosette has been acting rather strangely today; she said she felt ill, and so we stayed home. I sat in the garden for a time.” So saying, he pushed forward a pawn and took another drink from his glass.

Muttering indistinctly, the Inspector jumped his knight forward once more and captured a white pawn. “I wondered where she had got off to.”

Valjean nodded. “Her behavior turned odd last night. I can't imagine what’s gotten into her.” He moved his king on a diagonal to capture Javert’s knight.

“Risky,” Javert murmured.

“Surely not as risky as having no other pieces on the board?” Valjean asked, raising his eyebrows.

“Conservation of resources,” countered the Inspector, finally moving a pawn. “In any case, I'm sure the girl is fine. I doubt anyone alive could ask to be better tended.”

Valjean slid his castle horizontally. “I do believe I just received a compliment.”

“Now, now,” Javert tutted, his bishop moving a space diagonally. “Would I do that?”

“Well,” Valjean said with a laugh, “perhaps, but I certainly was not holding my breath.” He slid his castle forward and took out Javert’s pawn.

“Drat,” muttered Javert. He slid his bishop out of danger. “Check,” he added with a small grin.

Valjean’s eyes widened, and he hastily slid his king back where it had started.

“Dear me,” Javert sighed, moving his bishop one more space. “Check.”

Valjean’s hand moved, and a second later his pawn captured Javert’s bishop. When Javert made a noise of irritation, Valjean just tilted his head. “Risky,” he pronounced, and Javert felt his neck flush.

He laughed a minute later, taking Valjean’s castle with his pawn. “Try harder.”

Their game went on, mingled with banter and wine glasses which emptied slowly but steadily. Eventually, Javert won, though not before Valjean had put him in check twice and wiped most of his pieces from the board.

Valjean conceded defeat gracefully, offering his congratulations on a game well-played. Javert tilted his head.

“You're not so bad yourself,” he remarked, settling back in his chair. 

Valjean peered at him over the rim of his wine glass. “How perfectly extraordinary,” he said, so softly Javert was unsure if he was meant to hear it. “For us to sit here and play games together.”

Javert shifted, growing uncomfortable under the weight of Valjean’s gaze. It was not precisely scrutinizing, but felt rather like Valjean was staring straight through him. 

“I would never have believed it,” the Inspector commented, and Valjean startled, coloring, which suggested that he had not, in fact, meant to be overheard. “If someone had told me a week ago that I would be sitting here, well - I would have called them mad.”

“Javert,” Valjean sighed, “I would -”

“Papa?” Cosette’s voice at the entry to the salon surprised both men, and they turned their head in unison. 

“Yes, Cosette, what is it?” Valjean asked, rising. 

“Papa, I was looking out my window, and I could have just sworn I saw someone out among the bushes in the yard. Won't you go look and see?”

Valjean frowned, his concern evident. “Of course, my dear. Where did you say they were?”

“In around the honeysuckle, I think,” came the frightened response.

Javert also stood, looking between Valjean and the girl. “Perhaps I should go,” he suggested. “If someone is trespassing, that would be my jurisdiction.” 

“No, Inspector,” Valjean shook his head. “Thank you, but if someone is about, I'd prefer to... handle it quietly.” 

Understanding, Javert nodded. “I shall pack this away for you, then,” he said, waving towards the remnants of their game as Valjean slipped out into the hall. The Inspector could not help watching as he left, mesmerized by how quickly Valjean's usual gait turned immediately more careful, even furtive. The front door opened and shut, and then Javert tossed his head, simply humming to himself as he placed the chess pieces back in the box.

“I'm sorry to hear you're unwell,” he said to Cosette, leaning over the table. “Your father -” Javert was brought up short as he lifted his eyes to see that the girl was no longer standing in the doorway, but like a cat had padded up silently beside him. “Mademoiselle?”

“I lied,” she said flatly. “And I shall pray for forgiveness later, for there was no one in the garden, but I needed to talk to you, and that would be impossible with papa here.”

“I beg your pardon?” Javert straightened in his chair. “I don't understand.”

Cosette narrowed her eyes and stared at Javert. “I don't know who you are,” she said. “Not quite, though I feel like if I thought about it hard enough, I might remember. But I do know your name, Monsieur l’Inspector Javert.”

Javert’s eyes widened slightly, but he kept his voice calm when he replied, “Is that so?”

Cosette shook her head emphatically. “I know,” she repeated. “Sometimes, when I was smaller and we slept in the same room, father would have bad dreams. Sometimes he said things while he was sleeping. I knew I had heard your name before, but until you were here last night, I couldn't think of where. And then I remembered how sometimes, when he was sleeping, father would cry out a name - yours.”

Javert felt like he'd been punched in the gut. He opened his mouth to say something, anything, but without air in his lungs he couldn't make a sound. It wouldn't have mattered even if he had, because Cosette forged ahead, taking a step forward with an expression of such ferocity that the Inspector slid backwards in his seat. 

“Listen to me,” Cosette said with quiet fury. Javert would never have believed her tiny frame capable of containing so much anger. “I don't know a thing about you, or what you've done to my father, but you had just better be on your best behavior, Monsieur. He's seemed happier the last few days since you stayed here, but you better believe that's the only reason I'm not telling you to get out right now. If you do _anything_ to hurt him, why! You will have me to answer to.”

Dazed, Javert could think of nothing to say to this diatribe except, “Of course, Mademoiselle.”

“Well.” Cosette stared hard at him for a second. “Good.” Then she turned and marched primly from the room. 

Javert blinked rapidly, a combination of alarm and astonishment, and when he heard the front door re-open, he stood back up.

“I did not see anyone outside, Cosette,” Valjean told his daughter in the other room. “But I checked all the way around the house just to be sure.”

Cosette let out a sigh of what Javert knew to be false relief. “Thank you, papa. It must only have been my imagination playing tricks.”

“Run up to bed, my dear,” Valjean said softly. 

“Goodnight, papa,” came the demure reply.

There were small footfalls going up the stairs, and then the house was quiet again. Valjean entered the salon, looking stricken. 

“What do you suppose?” he asked. “I saw no one, but -”

“I think you are quite safe from the outside,” said Javert lowly. “It is from the inside that you may need be concerned.” When Valjean looked at him quizzically, Javert leaned closer. “Cosette recalls more of me than I think you would like.”

Valjean drew breath sharply. “What do you mean?”

The Inspector deliberated. There was certainly no way he could bring himself to repeat to Valjean what Cosette had told him, that Javert seemed to figure prominently in the other man’s nightmares. The problem was not that this was a surprising revelation - it was that, in retrospect, it was not surprising in the slightest.

“Your daughter seems to have figured out that we haven’t exactly always been friends,” he settled on. 

“You didn't -”

“Of course I didn't tell her anything,” said Javert in quiet exasperation. “If I cannot bring myself to report you to my superiors, I am hardly going to tell your daughter. But she suspects me, nevertheless.”

Valjean shook his head. “That's - that's not possible.”

Javert raised an eyebrow. “Is it so unlikely? You learned to see me everywhere - could not your daughter have picked up the same skill?”

“But -” Valjean’s face fell. “I cannot tell her the truth, Javert, I would break her heart. If she finds out -”

Valjean broke off as Javert held up his hand. “I cannot come back,” said the Inspector. “If I do not return, she will have no reason to pursue the matter further.”

“There you are mistaken,” murmured Valjean. “She has been asking me about my past for some time. If you suddenly disappear, she will have even more reason to think I'm hiding something.”

“You are hiding something,” Javert pointed out.

“I know!” Valjean said frantically. “And so does she, that's the problem.”

“What do you propose, then?”

Without quite thinking about what he was doing, Javert reached out and clapped a hand on Valjean’s shoulder. Valjean flinched at the touch, and it occurred to Javert that in all the long years of their acquaintance, there had been few occasions where contact had not been followed by hurt for one or both of them. He aborted that train of thought as immediately as it began - now was not the time to dwell on it, and anyway, apparently having accustomed himself to the proximity, Valjean was looking at him more like a lifeline than as someone to be afraid of.

“Please say you'll come back,” said Valjean despairingly, not quite pleading yet, but close to it. “I know you're a busy man, but if you have the time - she would be less suspicious than if you just vanished.”

There was a pain in Javert’s chest, the nature of which he did not have the vocabulary to articulate. “I -” He caught himself and thought. He had told himself he would not, could not, accept any further invitations, but in reality, there was no reason to say no save his own pride. “I will come back,” he finished. The gratitude in Valjean’s eyes made the pain worse.

“You are a good friend, Javert,” Valjean mumbled. “Thank you.” 

Javert balked at the word “friend” - was that what they were now? How Valjean could possibly want to be his friend was beyond him, but had not also Cosette said he had been happier since the Inspector had been there? It was too sudden, but somehow he could not find it within himself to contest it. 

Instead, he said, “It is late. I should be going.”

Valjean bowed his head. “I have kept you past propriety; I am sorry. Can I offer you a place here?”

Javert took a deep breath. “Thank you, no,” he said. “I really must be getting back to my quarters.”

“As you say.” Heaving a sigh, Valjean shook his head and looked at the Inspector wryly. “I'm afraid the evening’s taken a rather odd turn, but I hope you managed to enjoy yourself.”

Javert gave him an equally wry look. “It was certainly interesting.”

“Quite.” And then, “Goodnight, Javert.”

“Goodnight, Valjean,” said the Inspector softly.

Javert took his leave, and rented a fiacre for the trip back to his apartment, late as it was. He paid little attention to his surroundings, choosing instead to contemplate the small bubble of warmth he felt lodging itself in his breast. There was also guilt, yes, and the knowledge that if he returned to the Rue Plumet, he would be breaking a promise to himself, but all that seemed of less import next to the memory of blue-grey eyes and a voice which called him “friend”.


	8. In which there is a matter of conscience

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I may try switching to updating every day if I can. My family is going on vacation next Wednesday, and I'd been hoping to have this story concluded by the time we leave. I'm not sure now that that will be the case, but I'll still get as much done as I can.

The following succession of days passed by in a blur. Javert had by now become accustomed to making his way across town after work every evening. On Wednesday night, it was Valjean himself who met the Inspector at the door, the expression on his face changing so rapidly that Javert had to wonder if he had just been sitting near the entry, hoping Javert would keep his word and come. 

They played more chess at first, though after a time, this dissolved into simply sitting and talking quietly. Javert saw little of Cosette, and was unsure if that were Valjean’s doing or her choice; he imagined it was the latter. When she did appear, he was conscious of being watched, but now Valjean seemed to share her fixation. At those times when she appeared, Valjean turned taciturn, and Javert similarly withdrew. 

It was not a state of affairs which Valjean seemed keen to discuss, and so they did not, despite the Inspector’s certainty that it must prey on the man’s mind. Instead, they discussed philosophy (about which they disagreed heartily), or the finer points of gardening, or literature, or scripture, for of the two, Valjean was by far the more talkative, and Javert was generally content just to listen, adding a remark now and then as he had something to say. 

It lent the days a sort of equilibrium, one which the Inspector had little experience with, and though he still reflected in the quiet moments on how foreign such a thing felt, he had for the most part ceased to rail against it. As such, he was less prepared than he would have liked for the shock which met him in preparing to leave the station the following Sunday.

Javert had just concluded a meeting with the Prefect, the Prefect having determined that the Inspector was in fact now recovered enough to return to his usual post. Gratified to know he would be allowed to take what he considered useful action as early as the following morning, the Inspector was if not in a good mood then at least pleased. 

He stepped from the hall into the front lobby, but was brought up short at the sight of Beaulieu talking to two other officers, Duchamps and Pascal. Behind them, a man was slumped against the wall, his hands visibly chained together. A dribble of blood ran down his face from a cut on his temple. He was young - probably younger than any of the officers present. Javert drew a sharp breath, frozen in place. The scene was familiar - pedestrian, even - but something in it felt eerily akin to déjà vu.

“Take him down to one of the cells, then,” Beaulieu was saying. “A judge won’t be available to see him until Monday morning at the earliest.”

“Right,” Pascal replied. “Oi, you,” he added, turning to the prisoner. “Up you get. You’ll be spending the night here.”

The man staggered to his feet; his clothes were cheap and worn, though the bigger holes had been patched. Javert caught himself wondering if the man had a wife. Duchamps grabbed him by one shoulder, and Pascal by the other. They marched him down the other hall, towards the holding cells which kept prisoners until they could be sentenced. The Inspector watched them go, feeling his nails dig into his palms. When the trio was out of earshot, he turned to Beaulieu.

“What happened?”

Beaulieu shrugged. “Larceny. He was caught making off with a sack full of apples, and another vendor identified him as having stolen part of a turkey last week.”

“He’ll be sent to the galleys, then,” Javert remarked. “Five years at least, more if they can prove it was a repeat offense.”

The younger officer nodded his agreement. “So I would expect.” 

“Family?”

“Two children.” Beaulieu cocked his head to the side. “Is everything alright, sir?”

Javert leaned back against the wall, staring across the room at the window for a long moment. “It is nothing,” he replied. Then he heard himself say, “Do you ever wonder if we do the right thing?”

Beaulieu blinked at him in surprise. “All the time,” he said quietly. “Though I never thought to hear you of all people ask as much.”

“Hmm.” Continuing to stare vacantly, Javert drew a deep breath. “And why,” he asked, “would one stay in a job if one could not be sure it was just?”

The look Beaulieu gave him was cautious. “Is that an official line of inquiry, Inspector?”

Sparing him a glance, Javert shook his head. “I am not asking in any official capacity, merely... curiosity.”

“Hmm. Well, then.” Beaulieu crossed his arms and sighed. “Perhaps because I want to believe we can do good for France, for her people.”

Javert nodded. “And you feel like you have done good in your position?”

Beaulieu came to stand next to the Inspector, mirroring how he leaned on the wall. “A fortnight ago? That tavern maid would have been left penniless at best, dead at worst, had you not decided to intervene. That sounds like good to me, Inspector.”

Javert eyed him sideways. “Unless I am much mistaken, I had asked about you, not myself.”

The younger officer laughed. “You don’t miss a trick. But it comes to the same thing. I have always admired your work, Monsieur.”

“You are welcome to whatever good that may do you,” Javert scoffed. 

“Are you sure nothing is the matter?”

The Inspector stepped away from the wall. “It is nothing,” he insisted. “Just a thought, was all.” 

He was almost to the door when Beaulieu piped up again. “Would you ever fancy getting a drink?” asked the young officer, sounding like he expected to be berated for asking.

Javert turned over his shoulder skeptically. He was about to refuse, but then, he had asked some rather personal questions. There was a time not so long before when he would have reported the man to his superiors without hesitation for questioning the law’s inherent rightness. “I cannot tonight,” he said instead. “I have a prior engagement. However... perhaps another time, if the opportunity arises.”

Before Beaulieu had a chance to say anything, Javert swept out into the street, pulling the brim of his hat down to shade his eyes. He was troubled, and there was no point in trying to pretend otherwise. He briefly considered simply returning to his room for the night, but there was one person’s counsel he could trust, and it would not be found in the vicinity of his apartment. In a brash of impulsiveness, the Inspector hailed a fiacre.

“The Rue Plumet,” he told the driver. 

* * *

When the carriage arrived at number fifty-five, Javert disembarked with a sense of relief. Driving had been a good idea - his nerves were too rattled for the long walk between the police station and Valjean’s house. He paid his fare and was halfway up the path to the front door, when behind him, he heard a voice.

“Javert?”

The Inspector turned to see Valjean kneeling next to the garden bed and a pile of uprooted weeds. 

“Valjean.”

Perhaps some of Javert’s inner turmoil showed on his face, for Valjean stood up. 

“Are you quite alright?” Valjean asked in concern. “I wasn’t expecting you for at least another half-hour.”

Feeling foolish, Javert rubbed his forehead. “You’re the second person to ask that. I’m sorry,” he said. “You’re right, of course, it was out of place for me to arrive -”

Valjean cut him off with a shake of his head. “It’s no trouble at all,” he said. “I only had been planning to change into cleaner clothes, but I daresay you’ve seen me look worse. Whatever is the matter?”

Javert bit the inside of his cheek. “Can we talk?” he asked. Seeing Valjean’s expression, he quickly clarified. “You’re not in any danger, nor am I, I do not think, but... I should like your opinion on something, if you feel inclined to give it.”

“Of course,” Valjean replied immediately. “May I assume you’d prefer we spoke privately?”

Javert raised his shoulders. “That would be ideal,” he said.

“Of course,” Valjean only repeated. “If we sit in the back garden, you will not be overheard.”

“Very well, then,” was all Javert said.

Valjean led him around the side of the house. A narrow setback, bordered on the right by the house and on the left by a brick wall, provided a pass-through from the front yard to the back. A thick stand of trees near the salon windows masked the entrance, though once circumvented, the setback was spacious enough for both men to walk abreast. 

Behind the house, the garden was, if anything, a more lavish affair than it was in the front. Ivy grew thick over the masonry walls enclosing it, and flowers flourished amongst dark foliage. There was a narrow patio, and a door to it which opened onto the kitchen. There were a few windows on this side of the building as well, but they were shut and the shades were drawn. 

Valjean sat down on a stone bench not far from the flower bed, and gestured for Javert to join him. He said nothing, only gazed at his garden as he waited for the Inspector to speak.

“I am to go back on patrol tomorrow,” Javert began slowly. “The doctor has confirmed for the Prefect that I am healed enough, and I may resume my usual duties. I tell myself this is well. But...” He broke off, the forlorn face of the apple thief swimming in his memory. “How am I supposed to do my job if duty tells me I must do something which does not feel just?”

Valjean faced him, his eyes dark with empathy. “That is a hard thing,” he said.

Javert’s hands grabbed the sides of his greatcoat tightly. “I told you once as Madeleine that if you dismissed me, I could become a farmer; you were disinclined to believe it, and were right to, for try though I may, police work is the only thing of which I am capable. Without this, I am useless, but with it I will be forced to make choices - choices you’ve shown me are wrong.”

Valjean reached out a hand and rested it lightly on the Inspector’s shoulder. When Javert looked up, he said, “We all face choices we must make. Some of them are easier than others, but it is never the easy ones which define us. It is the hard choices, the ones which we war with ourselves over, that tell us who we are. You have already shown yourself capable of choosing the right thing.”

Javert placed his own hand on Valjean’s for a second before he stood up and paced around the bench. 

“But what if you are the exception?” he asked. “Not everyone can turn their lives around, you know, and not all of them can amass a fortune to give to beggars, or rescue orphans, or patch up undeserving Inspectors of the Police. How -” He stopped in front of Valjean. “How am I ever supposed to know what the right thing _is_?”

“Your conscience will tell you that,” Valjean replied. 

The sun dipped low enough over the horizon to be hidden behind the house, and the garden was plunged into cool shadow. Valjean stood, and placed a hand on the Inspector’s elbow. Javert looked at him questioningly, but Valjean just shook his head and guided him over to a corner of the garden. 

“Here,” he said, pointing to a viny shrub growing alongside the ivy. “Watch.”

At first, nothing happened, and Javert grew impatient. Seeing the expectant look on Valjean’s face, however, he held his tongue. Then he was struck by a sweet perfume, the origin of which he could not quite place. As he watched, he realized it was the vine, upon which dozens of small white flowers were opening to the air. 

“It is a jasmine plant,” explained Valjean. “One of the night-blooming varieties. I like to grow it, because it is a good reminder that sometimes beauty can arise from darkness.”

Javert looked at him sideways. “You have put a lot of thought into this.”

Valjean shrugged. “I have had a lot of time to think.”

“So you are not worried that once back in the sway of things, I might decide I have made a mistake and come to arrest you?”

Valjean breathed deeply. “I have already made my choice. To worry about it now would be pointless. And besides - you yourself are worried about it. If you are conscientious enough to recognize where temptation might occur, then you are conscientious enough to stand by what you believe to be right.”

“You are asking a great deal of me.”

“No more than you ask of yourself.”

Javert sighed. “Well,” he murmured, “I suppose I cannot argue that.”

Glancing over at him, a smile quirked Valjean’s lips. “If you are not otherwise occupied during your patrol tomorrow, perhaps you might stop by St. Étienne.”

The Inspector raised his eyebrows. “Whatever for?”

Valjean looked back at the jasmine plant. “You remove yourself from the citizens you serve,” he said. “It might set your mind at ease to remind yourself who your justice is intended to protect.”

“Hmmm.” Javert tilted his head back and stared at the sliver of moon emerging from behind a cloud. “I will make no promises on that front.” 

They stood silently side by side as the sky darkened, until the back door opened and Toussaint poked her head out.

“Oh, there you are, Monsieur!” she said, “And with Monsieur l’Inspector as well. I was getting worried when you didn't come in.”

“No need to worry,” Valjean smiled. “I was merely showing the Inspector our fine jasmine plant.”

“Ahhh,” Toussaint sighed fondly. “Quite. You should open the windows upstairs, Monsieur, to let in the fragrance.”

“Perhaps I will,” Valjean said quietly as Toussaint drew back inside. “Javert, would you prefer to take our discussion into the salon? It has grown quite dark.”

“I am unopposed,” Javert responded. “And Valjean... thank you.”

Valjean said nothing, but he smiled that particular way of his which made his face seem to glow from within. The pair disappeared into the house, and it was some time before the Inspector left to go back to his apartment.


	9. In which a reputation is at stake

Dawn found Javert standing near a fishmonger’s stall, his eyes sharp as a hawk’s as he watched carefully all the comings and goings of early-morning shoppers. He held a solid wooden cudgel with a deceptive looseness in one hand; woe unto anyone who mistook the relaxation in his posture for inattentiveness, for if it came to a contest between carved walnut and bone, walnut would prove the victor. 

He had arrived in the Place de l'Hôtel de Ville early, just as the vendors began to set out their wares for the day and the shops lining the street were starting to unlock their doors. By degrees, women appeared looking for bread or eggs, and small children paused in front of the toy store. Then there were men, sometimes seeking to trade, or to hire laborers. The Inspector observed all this from under the brim of his hat, looking for anyone feeling especially light-fingered, but even the gamins tended to steer clear when they noticed Javert standing in the square. There was something, he decided, to having a reputation.

As the market grew busier, the Inspector moved away from the fishmonger, walking along the perimeter of the stalls and in front of the larger shops. His vantagepoint gave him a wide view of the activity, which he processed and filtered with the ease of long years of practice. There was little to occupy him in business being honorably done, so he gravitated toward the edges of the square, searching for any sign of trouble.

Inevitably, there was an exclamation and Javert spotted the source immediately: a young boy, probably a gamin, running from an older gentleman as fast as his little legs would propel him. Clutched in his arms was a bun, clearly plundered from the man’s bag of groceries. Javert fell into pursuit automatically, following the child as he ducked into an alley.

“Stop!” Javert called after him. “You, there, boy, stop now!” 

Being both substantially taller and better-fed, the Inspector caught up to him with ease, catching the boy by the shoulder. The child, sandy-haired and dirty, spun around in panic and began babbling.

“Please, Monsieur, I didn't mean any harm, I never -”

“Quiet,” Javert snapped, thinking hard. He had slid back into the role of Inspector more easily than he could have hoped, but this was a child. He could only imagine what Valjean would have to say about it if he heard Javert was arresting children, even ones who were thieves. It was precisely the sort of dilemma he had hoped to avoid. “You took the bread from that man, yes?” he asked brusquely.

“Monsieur, I promise I -”

“Yes or no?”

By this time, the man had reached the alley, adjusting his cravat and appearing deeply irritated.

“Monsieur l’Inspector, you caught the street rat, I see. Would -”

“Quiet,” Javert repeated. To the boy, he said, “I'm waiting.”

The child pouted. “Doesn't matter either way, you'll just lock me up, huh?”

Javert rubbed the bridge of his nose, wondering not for the first time how Valjean managed to deal with anyone when people were so infuriating. 

“I asked you a question,” the Inspector said. “I'll give you one more chance to answer it.”

Sullenly, the boy muttered, “Alright, so I took it. He doesn't need it, he's got money to buy more, but me? I'll go hungry tonight without it, and tomorrow morning, too.”

“The bread, if you please,” Javert commanded, holding out his hand. Looking more grieved about the loss of the food than anything hitherto, the boy placed the bun in the Inspector’s palm, who then handed it to its owner.

“Keep a closer eye on your belongings,” Javert advised sourly as the man went to leave with his groceries and a scant word of thanks. 

Turning back to the child, Javert bent down to eye-level. “Listen,” he said. “I haven't seen you around here before, and you were honest with me, so I am inclined to let you off with a warning. But -” He leaned forward, looking the boy in the eyes. “- do _not_ think I will be so lenient next time.”

The Inspector was not midway done with his speech before the boy was looking at him like he had grown a second head.

“You mean it, Monsieur? I can go?”

“That's what I said, isn't it?” Javert growled. “Don't make me regret it.”

“Thanks, Monsieur!” exclaimed the child. He pulled away and had dashed down much of the alley when a thought occurred to the Inspector.

“Boy!” Javert called.

The child paused, evidently afraid Javert had changed his mind.

“You're hungry, aren't you?” When the boy nodded warily, Javert asked, “Do you know the church, St. Étienne?” The boy nodded again. “There is a man who goes there with his daughter to give away bread some days. I would imagine they are there now.”

“For free, Monsieur?”

“For free,” Javert confirmed. “God only knows why,” he added under his breath. The child’s expression split into a wide grin and with a wave of a grubby hand, he turned the corner onto the next street. 

Alone, Javert groaned and rubbed his face more vigorously. It had been right to let the boy go, it had to have been. He thought he would feel prouder of making better choices, but he only felt vaguely nauseous. It was admittedly improbable that, had he brought the child to the station, the boy would have received a punishment more severe than perhaps a few lashes in the city square, but to let him off still felt like a further descent down a dizzyingly steep slope. He tried to content himself with the knowledge that the stolen property had been returned, but even that much felt like a hollow excuse.

The Inspector turned and left the alley, stepping out into the bright sun, just in time to see a pair of what looked to be students vanishing into the back of a tavern. Javert narrowed his eyes. It seemed unlikely that the insurgents of his reports would be making moves here, near the very heart of Paris, but it was not impossible. Casually, he walked along outside a trio of building façades until he stood across the street from the tavern. Then he slunk back down another side street, sticking close to the wall where he could see without being seen.

Hours passed, and Javert carefully noted every individual who entered or left the establishment. The two he had seen go in did not come out, though a handful of other students exited by way of the main entrance. No one at all used the back door. 

Though Javert considered going in to investigate further, in the end, he decided against it. He would look immensely out of place in his uniform, and would look all the more so as he was not inclined to drink. Better, then, merely to report the incident, and have another officer investigate. Drawing a pad of paper from his pocket, Javert scribbled down the name of the tavern and the date, as well as what little description he could give of the students. 

A bell tolled the hour, shaking the Inspector from his concentration. It occurred to him that he was hungry, and also that if he meant to meet Valjean at the church before he left, then Javert would need to be on his way. Javert spared a final glance for the tavern before walking down the side street and doubling back to the market by a different route. If there was indeed something illicit going on there behind closed doors, then a clever student would have lookouts posted. The Inspector had no intent of tipping them off to the fact that they were being watched. 

* * *

Walking through the city, a recently-purchased bit of smoked fish in his hand, Javert neared the Montagne Sainte-Geneviève hill, atop which stood the Panthéon with its oculus. Turning the corner, he heard the sounds of a fountain running and a rush of voices. The street, along with a few others running parallel to it, opened onto a small plaza. On the far side stood the church, dedicated to St. Stephen. Its rambling mixture of Greek and gothic styles soared upward to terminate in a bell tower, while innumerable carvings and delicate sculptures looked down upon the people below.

Valjean stood between the church and the fountain. The white-haired philanthropist held a basket, from which he distributed bread loaves and buns to those waiting, a dozen more such baskets at his feet. His smile was serene as he spoke to each person. A long line of people trailed around the plaza, chattering, each of them apparently waiting their turn. People of all ages and in varying states of health and cleanliness had turned out to wait upon the generosity of “the man from St. Étienne”.

Javert stood to the side of the street where he wouldn't be noticed, merely watching. Cosette, he saw, was sitting with Toussaint on the fountain’s edge. There were fewer gathered around them, but those there were cycled past more slowly. Eventually, Javert realized that these were the wounded, and that Cosette and her servant were doing what they could to bandage their injuries.

How long he stood there, the Inspector could not have said. It was both utterly perplexing and impressive how Valjean managed to keep the crowd orderly, even though many of the assembled had to be starving. The sky was just beginning to change color when all but the last couple of people had been fed. Leaving Toussaint to clean up the excess gauze, Cosette went to help her father finish giving out food, and then the plaza was empty but for the three of them. 

Javert stepped out into the open. Cosette, seeing him, startled, but Valjean just waved.

“Hello, Javert,” he called. “I wondered how long you were going to stand there.”

Crossing the plaza to speak to him, Javert folded his arms. “You knew I was waiting?”

Valjean nodded, full of amusement. “I saw you when you came down the street.”

The Inspector wrinkled his nose. “You are irritatingly observant.”

“Said the pot to the kettle.”

Javert rolled his eyes in response. “You seemed to have quite the crowd. I felt like I might not be entirely welcomed by some of your... petitioners.” 

Valjean hummed. “I have done my utmost to make it clear to everyone that I will welcome anyone of good intent.”

Shaking his head, Javert sighed. “Still,” he said, “I thought it would be rude to cause a panic, and I'm in little mood at the moment to send anyone to debtor’s prison, so I was content to stand to the side. Can I help you clean up?”

“Certainly.” Valjean knelt and began picking up baskets, some of which he handed off to the Inspector. “Father D’Amboise has done us the courtesy of letting us keep our baskets in the cellar of the church. Are you hungry? There is a little bread left.”

Javert frowned. “Keep your charity.” 

“If it displeases you.” Valjean stood with his arms full of baskets. “Though I hardly think that would constitute charity.” 

“What am I to do with the baskets?” Javert asked before Valjean could say more. 

“Follow me.” Valjean climbed the church steps to the grand center door, which was opened by a man Javert presumed to be Father D’Amboise.

The Father in turn led them around the baptistery and sacristy to a small, arched door. Behind it was a flight of stairs leading to the basement, where the two men stacked the baskets amid dusty pews and crates of wine.

When they re-emerged, Valjean brought with him what remained of the bread. He handed it solemnly to Father D’Amboise, who bowed his head in acknowledgement. 

“Father D’Amboise will see that it goes to those who need it,” Valjean explained as they left the church. “There are beggars sometimes, or lost children, who come to the church seeking shelter. They will receive it.”

Javert regarded him quietly. “You are... very passionate about this.”

With a quirk of his lips, Valjean replied, “I thought you already knew that.”

“Knew it? Yes.” The Inspector laughed humorlessly. “I still do not understand it.”

“Hmm.” Valjean stopped at the top of the steps and stared across the street. “I found solace at a place like this once. If I can help other people find the same, then I will do so.” 

“Papa,” Cosette called from near the fountain. “It will be dark soon.”

“We’re coming, my dear,” Valjean called back, descending the stairs. “Will you join us again this evening?” he asked over his shoulder.

The Inspector pursed his lips in annoyance. “Unfortunately, I cannot. The Prefect has insisted that I see the doctor again tonight to check I am not ‘over-exerting’ myself.”

“I am glad he is concerned for your safety,” Valjean said quietly. 

“It is a waste of my time,” argued Javert. “Over-exert myself, indeed. I am not dying.”

They reached the spot where Cosette and Toussaint stood waiting. 

“A lot of people came today,” Cosette remarked as the group began walking. 

Valjean nodded. “Things are worsening,” he said. “The Father’s new hospital has yet to open, and already the beds are overflowing with the sick. We must give them hope.”

The Inspector stared at the ground as he walked. “This cannot end well,” he said quietly. “Some of them are even championing revolution now.”

“Why shouldn't they?” Cosette asked. “If the government is not hearing its people -”

“The government hears,” Javert interjected. “And they will respond as they must - with force. There will not be another French Revolution. Anyone who attempts it will be killed.”

Cosette made a soft exclamation at the same time as Valjean’s cry of, “Javert -!” but Javert stopped walking, standing in front of a side-street.

“This is where I must leave you,” he said. “Goodnight.”

“Well,” said Valjean, and it turned into a sigh. “Will we see you tomorrow?”

“I should expect so.”

“Good. Sunday dinner will be later, if you cared to join us.”

“That would not be -”

“Please?”

Javert paused, struck by the honest invitation in Valjean’s eyes.

“Are you sure that's wise?” he asked eventually, a tip of his head indicating Cosette. “Surely I am too... rough a character for your dining table.”

“Please,” Valjean repeated, and Javert knew himself to be lost. “It would do me good to have a friend dine with us.”

“If it is so important to you,” Javert replied, “then I will be there.”

The tender smile on Valjean’s face cut like a knife.

“Wonderful,” he said. “Goodnight, Javert.”

Javert could not speak, so he nodded, tipping his hat to the women before he went his way. He had not separated from Valjean by a displacement greater than a block before he collapsed against a cool stone wall, rubbing his temples firmly. 

Asking himself what had overcome him, Javert took a seat on a stone slab, drawing one of his knees up to his chest. It was undignified, and he was thankful the narrow street was deserted. All of Valjean’s little kindnesses were too much for the Inspector, and everything now brought itself to bear on him - the smiles, and glances, and once or twice something like a smirk; the food, and the invitations, and the hospitality; his overtures of friendship, his forgiveness, and above all his damned mercy - every bit of it was torturously confusing. 

It had not at first been too difficult to allow it, back when he could tell himself that he was merely repaying a debt by not reporting the man, but events had rapidly spiraled out of his control. He was now even degraded to such a point that he wouldn't arrest a simple pick-pocket. Was that to be his new reputation? Javert, the once-feared, once-terrible, was now permitting even lowly street urchins to run rampant. 

He let out a groan of something like despair. The worst of it was that he was far too invested now to stop. His fellow officers would certainly make something of it if they knew he left the station every night to sit and chat with an unmarried father; if anyone ever found out the real truth of the matter, he would be fortunate if losing his position was the worst to come of it. For all that, however, the very notion of ceasing his visits to the Rue Plumet was agonizing. Valjean provided warmth and camaraderie, both of which he sorely lacked, and like a shaded plant finally opened to the sun, he drank it in. It was selfish, even greedy of him, but it filled an emptiness he had never been aware of having.

Down the street, someone poured their dishwater out the window. Javert stood, lest someone else do the same on top of his head. He trudged the rest of the way to the hospital, where he permitted the doctor to poke and prod him with more grace than usual; he was too distracted to care, unable to shake the feeling that he was being pulled slowly apart.


	10. In which a promise is forgotten

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think I was too conservative in my previous estimate - I am now guessing that this is likely to go to 19 chapters or so. I'm doubtful I can finish before we leave for vacation, but I'll do my best.
> 
> Also, don't get excited, it's not who you might think... yet.

Having put together his report the night before, Javert arrived at the police depot early the next morning, eager for a distraction from his thoughts. Beaulieu was already there, sitting at a table in the lobby slumped over himself.

“Officer?” Javert asked, tapping on the tabletop.

Beaulieu looked up at him blearily. “Inspector? Is it morning already? Damn.”

“Have you been here all night?” the Inspector inquired with a frown.

Miserably, the young officer nodded. “Duchamps and Morel were looking into reports of munitions crates being traded around the Rue St. Martin. They have not yet returned.”

Javert scowled. “And here I was going to have them come with me to look into a potential situation.”

Rubbing his eyes, Beaulieu pulled himself upright. “Where? Why?” he asked. “What’s going on?” 

Thumbing his written report, the Inspector’s mouth thinned. “The Place de l'Hôtel de Ville. And I am not certain,” he said. “Perhaps nothing. But while I was on patrol yesterday, there were two youths I saw who disappeared into the back of a tavern. I watched, but I never saw them leave.”

It was Beaulieu’s turn to frown. “That sounds like what we’ve been hearing from the Saint Merry neighborhood.”

“That was my thought.”

“You mean to check into it, then?” 

Javert nodded the affirmative. “After I give my report to Gisquet.”

“I’ll go with you, then,” offered Beaulieu. “And we should see who else is here - at least one other person ought to accompany us in case there’s trouble.”

“You haven’t slept,” Javert protested. “You won’t be of any use to me while exhausted.”

“I got a few hour’s sleep,” the officer argued. “And you owe me a drink.”

“Fine,” Javert agreed irritably. “But do go and see if anyone else is here.”

By the time the Inspector had delivered his report to the Prefect and returned to the lobby, Beaulieu was looking substantially more awake and had been joined by Royer, a newer officer who was darker of skin and wiry of build. 

“Morning, Inspector,” he grinned. “Beaulieu tells me we’re going out for drinks, but I told him he must be mad if he thought you would let us get away with that.”

“We will be undercover,” Javert explained flatly. He had taken the opportunity after handing in his report to divest himself of his greatcoat, and instead carried a thicker leather apron, of the sort a blacksmith might wear. “You will disguise yourselves. When we reach the tavern, you may have a drink, if you must, as doing otherwise would be unaccountably suspicious in such a place, but we will be there to observe the goings-on, not for leisure.”

Beaulieu clapped Royer on the back. “You owe me two francs.”

“Gambling is prohibited to members of the police force,” reminded Javert as he set his things on the table.

In the time it took the two officers to change out of their uniforms and into something less conspicuous, Javert had finished obscuring his appearance, tucking his long hair under a hat to complete his transformation into a grizzled metal-worker. Beaulieu’s expression upon re-entering suggested he might burst out laughing at any moment, but the Inspector merely stared at him, unimpressed, until he managed to school his features into something more neutral.

“I am far more easily recognized,” was the only explanation Javert gave as they set out. 

The Inspector paid a fiacre to drive them most of the way to the city square, but they stopped before the road converged with the Seine and disembarked, for, as Javert pointed out, the poorer citizens they were portraying could hardly afford carriage rides. The tavern, when they came to it, was a soft hum of activity. Even this early in the day, there were people present, some of whom looked as though they might have been there all night. No one paid the three policemen the least bit of mind as they entered and took seats at a small wooden table. Javert sat with his back to the door, the others with their backs to the bar. 

Beaulieu hailed a barmaid and ordered drinks for himself and Royer. He looked at Javert as well, but the Inspector just shook his head.

“Spoilsport,” Beaulieu complained, handing the waitress a tip. 

Javert was too engaged to take more than passing notice of the jibe. Behind the bar was a door, presumably to the back storage room. To his left was a staircase up to the owner’s private residence on the second floor, and on his right, a line of windows punched through the wall to a view of the street outside. Similar tables littered the room, all in varying states of upkeep and occupancy, and over everything hung the thick scent of alcohol and candle tallow. 

None of those present appeared to be students, but it was early, and Javert was prepared to wait. As his officers tucked into their drinks, he got the impression that they, too, were perfectly prepared to sit in the establishment as long as Javert wanted.

“If either of you so much as come close to getting drunk...” Javert trailed off threateningly.

Royer laughed him off. “We’re on duty,” he snickered quietly. “We wouldn't dream of it.”

The Inspector looked at him coolly until Beaulieu nudged the other officer in the ribs.

“The Inspector means it, you know,” he muttered to Royer.

“Quite,” said Javert smoothly. “Now if you wouldn't mind paying attention,” he added, glancing up, “they're here. No - don't look yet.”

Javert reached out and swiped a drink from Beaulieu’s glass, using it as an excuse to raise his head and examine the three youths who had just entered the main room of the tavern through the door in the back.

“Hey!” Beaulieu protested. “Buy your own -”

“Never mind that.” He nodded towards the back, and getting the message, Beaulieu lifted his arms and stretched, looking back over his shoulder.

“Three of them,” murmured the officer as he turned around. “Students?”

Javert nodded. “They look the part.”

“Do we arrest them?” Royer asked, leaning across the table. 

Javert tapped a finger to his chin. “Not yet,” he said quietly. “There's nothing illegal about their being in the back room with the owner’s permission. We have to be able to charge them with something.”

Royer nodded his comprehension, and used the passing barmaid as an excuse to get a look at them while ordering a second drink. The students were gathered in a huddle, conversing furiously but too quietly to overhear. 

“I have an idea,” Beaulieu offered. When Javert raised his eyebrows, the officer smiled slyly. “If Royer goes up to the bar, he might be able to get close enough to eavesdrop. They might even mistake him for another student. Royer can give a signal, and I'll bar the main door. They'll have to run out the way they came, and Javert, if you will wait for them at the rear entrance, we can take them out.”

Javert hissed through his teeth. “It would be a risk,” he said. “There could be more of them in the back.”

Royer shook his head. “No, it's a good plan,” he said. “We’ll have surprise on our side, and besides, they're only school boys.” 

One of the three was staring at them now, and Javert shook his head vehemently. “Not yet,” he insisted, keeping his voice low. “More of them may come. Better to catch the whole pack of rats at once. And keep drinking, you're beginning to attract attention.”

Beaulieu chuckled at this last. “Don't have to tell me twice.” He took a swig from his glass. 

One of the students, a ginger-haired boy, left the group and slipped back into the store room. Javert narrowed his eyes. For a fraction of a second, he had caught a glimpse of whatever was behind the door, but not enough to be certain of its contents. Still, the moment was enough to keep him on guard. 

Ducking his head toward the others, Javert said quietly, “They may have weapons.”

Royer grimaced. “On them?”

Looking now from the corner of his eye, Javert raked the two students with his gaze, looking for any place they might be concealing a gun. “If they do, it'll be small ones,” concluded the Inspector, “but there looks to be a number of crates in the back. If they're smuggling bullets, chances are there are guns here somewhere.”

Royer cursed under his breath. “We need reinforcements, then.”

“Who do you propose?” asked Javert, raising his eyebrows. “Duchamps and Morel are occupied with an investigation of their own, and all the others are out on patrol. There is no one else, Royer. We will simply have to make due.” 

“Now?”

“Now.”

Beaulieu frowned. “What happened to waiting?”

Barely above a whisper, Javert replied, “Right now, there are three of us, and three of them, and they may or may not have firearms. If we wait, then more of them could arrive, and they could bring firearms if there aren't any already. I like our current odds better, don't you?”

The Inspector stood up from his chair, smiling as naturally as he could manage. “I'll see you later, then,” he said, speaking more loudly than he had the entire exchange. He gave the two officers a meaningful look and sauntered out of the tavern, the very picture of a blacksmith down on his luck.

Once outside, Javert circled around the tavern to the rear entrance he had discovered the day before. He slid his cudgel out from where he kept it hidden under a heavy jacket and stood at the ready. There was a shout from inside the building; Javert stiffened, listening as the shouting continued, followed by the sound of breaking glass. Then came the noise which he had most hoped to avoid - a gunshot. When there was no answering scream, he had to conclude that the would-be assailant had missed.

The rear door flew open with a bang, and someone tumbled out practically on top of the Inspector. Cracking the student over the head with his night-stick, the body collapsed to the pavement in a heap. Javert sprang inside to behold a sea of chaos. 

There were five students present besides the one unconscious outside. Evidently, there had  been more of them waiting in the storage room. Beaulieu and Royer were holding their own in the tussle, but it was an uneven fight. As Javert had suspected, a pile of crates sat in the middle of the floor. The top box was missing its lid, revealing a couple of pistols lying on straw. 

“Enough!” Javert shouted. “You are all under arrest pending investigation of charges including sedition and arms smuggling. You have -”

The breath was knocked out of him by one lanky youth, who turned from fighting Royer to tackle the Inspector. Falling backward against the wall, Javert was conscious of a great pain erupting across his temple. Seeing stars, he lashed out with the cudgel and was pleased to feel it make contact with flesh. There was a cry; forcing himself back up, Javert had only just refocused his eyes when the student, blond with short hair, launched himself again at the Inspector even as a deep purple bruise blossomed across his cheek. 

“Death to the monarchy!” shouted the boy.

Ready for him this time, Javert deferred the attack, and with a well-placed shove, pushed the boy against the wall. He whipped a pair of handcuffs from his pocket and bound his hands, before turning back to survey the rest of the room. Beaulieu and Royer appeared to have managed much the same; the students all lay on the floor in varying states of consciousness.

Panting, Javert gestured around. “Get them - get them out of here,” he ordered. “Beaulieu - track down the owner of the place. He is also under arrest, on the same charges.” He took a deep gulp of air as he staggered over to the crates. The open box was full of assorted weapons, he found. Several were firearms, but just as many were blunt instruments, evidently repurposed. 

“Inspector,” said Royer. “Your head -”

“It's fine,” Javert snapped. In truth, the blood trickling down the side of his face was aggravating, and as the energy of the altercation wore off, it began to throb. “Are you hurt?”

Royer shook his head. “One of them pulled a gun, but he didn't know how to use it. Smashed a window. I've got a few bruises, but nothing I won't recover from.”

“Good, good.”

It took the next several hours to bring the prisoners back to the station and take statements from everyone involved. Beaulieu caught the tavern owner attempting to climb along the side of the building from a second story window with a suitcase; he was arrested promptly once they figured out how to get him down.

Javert wrapped some gauze around his head if only to keep Gisquet from lecturing him, but he was quietly proud of their efforts. In the end, three of the crates were carrying supplies for the insurgents, the primary one being bullets. Between securing the crates and putting the six students behind bars, the Inspector couldn't help but feel they had to have put a significant dent in the revolutionaries’ forces.

Some of his enthusiasm left him when Gisquet drew him to the side.

“Well done, Inspector,” said the Prefect.

“Thank you, Monsieur,” Javert replied humbly, bowing his head.

“But I fear it will not be enough,” Gisquet added with a sigh.

“Sir?”

The look which the Prefect gave him was measured. “Duchamps made it back from the Rue St. Martin. Morel did not. There is anger in the streets, Javert, and it is growing by the day. You can’t have missed how the number of hearses patrolling the city has increased - cholera is destroying Paris, and people want someone to blame.”

Javert shook his head. “How bad is it, now?”

The Prefect drew a breath. “Hard to say. Reports tell us that the twelfth, ninth, and seventh arrondissements are completely overtaken by the disease, and the fifth is heading that way. People are dropping like flies, and it’s not even only the peasants anymore. You surely saw the article about the deaths at the Hôtel-Dieu in the paper?”

The Inspector confirmed as much with a grimace. “And the insurgents?”

“Growing in number as quickly as the hearses, it would seem. If things continue at this rate, Javert, there will be rebellion in the streets of Paris.”

The Inspector spat angrily. “They must know that bloodshed will solve nothing.”

“I have to disagree with you there. They seem to think quite the opposite.” Gisquet frowned, etching hard lines in his face. “Get a better dressing on that injury, Inspector. We need everyone to be in top form.”

Javert replied, “Yes, Monsieur,” and bowed. 

Excusing himself, Javert sat down in his office to better attend the cuts and bruises on his temple when the bell chimed the hour. He paused, listening, and then stood, walking to the window. The sun had not yet set, for the solstice was approaching and the days had grown quite long, but as Javert counted each resonation of the tolling bell, he realized it was much later than he had thought.

There was something else he was meant to do, he was sure of it. Then in a flash, he remembered his promise to Valjean the previous evening, that he would meet the family for dinner. Javert groaned and pressed his forehead to the window pane. Valjean had not mentioned a time, but in all likelihood they would have eaten already. He prayed to anyone who might be listening that they were not still waiting on him - he did not know if he would survive the embarrassment. 

Muttering curses to himself, the Inspector fixed his bandages as best he could and rushed out. Hurriedly, he offered his assurances to Gisquet that he was quite well enough to be on his way; his superior regarded him dubiously, but in the end said he could go. The thought occurred, as he stood on the street corner flagging down a fiacre, that never in his life had he felt so compelled to accept a dinner invitation, and it was ill luck that had brought him such distraction. It would be like Valjean to forgive his lateness, but Javert could not shake the supposition that were he indeed wishing to be a friend to Valjean, he was doing a very poor job of it.


	11. In which apologies are offered

Javert barely knocked once on the door to number fifty-five before Valjean pulled it open, worry written into every line on his face. When he saw the Inspector, his eyes widened further.

“Javert!” he exclaimed. “What on earth happened? Your head -”

“It's nothing,” Javert interrupted. “There was an incident this morning. I have been terribly rude - I lost track of time, but that is no excuse -”

Valjean waved this away easily. “Never mind that, man,” he said. “Come inside, you need someone to take a look at that.”

“I don't want a doctor,” Javert griped as he stepped across the threshold.

“I'll look at it, then,” Valjean called back, already bustling around in another room collecting supplies. “Sit down.”

Javert looked around. In the dining room, Cosette was seated at the table, sipping from a cup. She looked up and smiled tentatively, but Javert was of little mood to navigate a conversation with her, so he only inclined his head politely and went into the salon instead, taking a seat in his usual armchair. Valjean joined him a moment afterward, carrying a dish of water and a handful of rags.

“Please don’t make a fuss,” Javert began, but it was far too late for that.

“Come here,” said Valjean, sitting on the couch and indicating the place next to him.

Javert screwed up his face in protest. “This really is not necessary.”

“Come,” Valjean repeated.

Slowly, the Inspector rocked himself forward and stood. If an age passed in the time it seemed to take to reach the couch, it would not have surprised him. He sat down just as slowly, carefully arranging his greatcoat around him so it would not wrinkle.

“If you must,” he capitulated.

Valjean stared at him for a moment, and Javert felt his face heat under the examination. Then Valjean reached out a hand, and in one instant of crystalline lucidity, Javert wondered if Valjean meant to cup his cheek. Instead, his fingers settled on the bandage covering the Inspector’s brow, and Javert’s stomach turned over in what he resolutely told himself was not disappointment.

Gingerly, Valjean unwrapped the existing gauze. He brushed against a particularly tender spot, and Javert flinched. Immediately, Valjean pulled his hand back, murmuring apologies. Javert turned his head a little to the side.

“It’s just bruised,” he explained.

Biting his lip, Valjean pulled the rest of the bloodied gauze off. This time, he did rest his fingers against the sharp turn of the Inspector’s jaw as he took in the extent of the injuries.

“Javert, what happened?” he asked, the concern clear in his voice and eyes.

Javert swallowed. “We arrested a group of anti-monarchists for arms-smuggling and plotting treason. One of them knocked my head into the wall. It looks worse than it is,” he added, as Valjean’s face grew more dismayed.

Valjean dipped a rag in the bowl of water and wrung it out, then used it to wipe carefully at the scrapes along the Inspector’s temple. Javert tried to ignore the proximity of Valjean’s face to his own as the man leaned closer to better see what he was doing, but it was difficult. He turned his head a bit more and watched the fire pop and crackle in the grate, though it did little to distract from the warmth of Valjean’s breath on his skin, or the way the man prised long strands of Javert’s hair away from getting caught up in his work.

Cleaning the wounds stung, but it was tolerable. What was less so was the way every small change of position caused Valjean to nudge against him. In Javert’s heightened state of awareness, every instance tingled like a shock, and he was certain his face had to be reddening. He only hoped that it was not noticeable in the fire light.

The strangest thing was the sheer gentleness of it. Javert did not know that he had ever in his life been handled quite so attentively. While the Inspector had seen plenty of physicians in his time, he did not think he could categorize a single one of them as having been gentle. Clinical, yes, but gentleness was too personal for the usual professional. Javert’s tolerance for doctors was limited on the very best of days; in Valjean’s case, he could not decide whether he wanted to get up and leave or sit there for the rest of the night.

Eventually, Valjean seemed satisfied. “I'll wrap it now, if that's alright,” he said softly, to which Javert nodded.

Valjean pressed a clean strip of rag against the Inspector’s scraped brow and wrapped gauze around his head to hold it in place. He pinned it, and then sat back carefully. On the couch, they were near enough for their knees to knock together. Javert raised a hand to his face, exploring the way the loosely woven fabric stretched over his scalp.

“You are good at that,” he said, subdued. “Thank you.”

“I’m glad I could help,” Valjean replied, holding his gaze. He rested his hand on the Inspector’s leg, a friendly gesture which Javert had to correlate with the sudden increase in his heart rate. “Would you stay the night?”

“I beg your pardon?” If Javert had not been flushed already, then he certainly was now.

“It is growing late, and you are hurt. Surely it would do no harm for you to sleep here rather than to go back to your rooms alone.”

“I do not think -”

“Please.” That one word was enough to silence him. “I would feel better knowing you were safe.”

Javert sighed and rubbed at his nose. “If it is so important to you, I will sleep on the couch.”

“But -”

“Valjean,” the Inspector said quietly. “You have asked me to stay and I have agreed, but I will not remove you or any of your household from their bed. If I stay, it will be on the couch, that is my condition.”

Valjean raised his hands in defeat. “Done,” he said. “I will have Toussaint locate some spare bedding. And Javert... thank you.”

The man stood, going to find Toussaint, but Javert sat frozen in place. The spot on his trousers where Valjean had rested his palm burned like a brand. It was a foreign sensation - did simple touches such as this usually elicit such a response? He was unsure, but he suspected not. Leastwise, if they did, no one had ever mentioned it to him.

When Valjean re-entered, a pillow and several sheets bundled in his arms, Javert stood up to meet him.

“Thank you,” he said, taking the bedding. He strove not to notice the way he warmed when Valjean’s fingers touched his own.

Valjean smiled. “Goodnight, Javert. Sleep well.”

And for the first time in what felt like months, he did.

* * *

It was early when Javert awoke. For a long minute, he was confused, unable to remember where he was or why. Then his eyes focused on the fireplace, with its two silver candlesticks on the mantle, and the memory came back to him. It was very early. Outside, the light was grey, and the fireplace held only coals. Still, he came to discover as his vision adjusted that he was not alone in the room.

Cosette sat in the left-hand armchair, her knees pulled up to her chin under her nightgown. She was watching him, Javert could tell, and he sat up slowly, mindful of his head.

“Mademoiselle?” he asked. “Shouldn't you be in bed? The sun has not even yet risen.”

The girl startled, apparently having not realized the Inspector was awake.

“I couldn't sleep,” she confessed, sitting forward. “Monsieur... I believe I must tell you I am sorry.”

“Mademoiselle?” Javert, still groggy, rolled into something resembling a sitting position.

Cosette chewed her lower lip. “For... for the other night,” she said. “I think I was wrong to shout.”

Javert blinked at her as she continued.

“It was uncharitable, accusing you of all manner of things.” She sighed. “And papa... papa is very fond of you, I've never seen him quite so content, nor known him to have any visitors at all. I was just worried for him, Monsieur, and -”

The Inspector looked on in growing alarm as Cosette began to sniffle. What in Heaven’s name was he supposed to do with this?

“Please, don't... cry,” Javert said awkwardly. “Listen, it was a perfectly understandable reaction, and you were right, your... father and I haven't always seen eye to eye, so there's no need to get so worked up.”

Cosette pulled a handkerchief from her pocket and dabbed at her nose. “I just wish he would trust me with whatever it is he’s hiding.” She looked across the coffee table at Javert. “You know, don't you?”

Javert nodded, because there was no point in denying it when she clearly had guessed the truth of the matter.

“But you won't tell me?”

“It is not my story to tell,” Javert said only.

“Hmm.” Cosette got up and came to sit next to the Inspector on the couch instead. “Even if I do wish you would tell me, I suppose you are a good friend for my father if you keep his confidences.”

Javert was too surprised to say anything, simply transfixed by the girl who seated herself so trustingly at his side. Without thinking, he murmured, “He should be proud of you. Your mother would be, too.”

Cosette's head jerked up. “You knew my mother?” she asked.

Javert grimaced. It had been a foolish thing to say, and he did not know why he had. “It was a long time ago,” he tried to explain. “And our meeting was not under the best of circumstances. But that is also not my story to tell, at least not now.”

Cosette accepted this with better grace than the Inspector would have believed possible, though he supposed she must be used to evasive answers. He was about to recommend she return to bed when there was a soft pressure on his shoulder. Javert looked down to see Cosette had fallen asleep and was slumped against him, an errant curl falling over her nose.

Javert was a combination of charmed and panicked, not sure what to do, but he could not help but register the surge of protectiveness which swept him. He settled for patting her hand delicately before settling his back against the couch, prepared to wait until she woke up or morning came.

* * *

Cosette did not wake, and so Javert was still sitting there, holding himself very still when Valjean entered with the first rays of sunshine. His eyes widened when he saw his daughter, though his apparent shock turned into quiet entertainment when Javert, rotating his head a fraction of an inch, mouthed “ _Help_ ” at him.

“Cosette?” Valjean said softly, going to stand behind the couch and laying a gentle hand on her shoulder.

The girl made an indistinct noise and opened her eyes sleepily.

“Papa?” she mumbled, and then as her awareness returned, “Monsieur?” She sat up, tucking her hair back behind her ear. “Oh dear, I fell asleep, didn't I?”

Beginning to share some of Valjean’s amusement, Javert nodded. “About an hour ago,” he confirmed.

“Oh! I'm -” Cosette broke off in a yawn. “I'm sorry, Monsieur, you must have been terribly discomfited.” Turning to her father, she explained, “I couldn't sleep, and so I came down here and -”

“And you slept,” Valjean laughed. “I see. Why don't you run along and get dressed?”

After she had left, Valjean looked apologetically at Javert. “I'm sorry,” he said, “she should know better than to have bothered you.”

The Inspector shook his head, standing. He began to fold the blankets as he said, “She was no bother. Your daughter is actually somewhat endearing.”

Valjean smiled at that, a happy light kindling in his eyes. “She is my life,” he replied. “There is nothing I would not do for her.”

“She also seems to be under the impression that you've grown ‘fond’ of me, but surely that is a simple misapprehension on her part.”

Tilting his head to one side, Valjean seemed to consider him. “Why shouldn't I be fond of you?”

Javert raised his eyebrows. “Do you mean to say that you are?”

Valjean huffed a little at that. “Well, I should think I would be fond of my friends, wouldn't you?”

“And there's another thing,” the Inspector said as he finished folding the bed sheets. “How can you call me ‘friend’ after everything I have put you through?” His expression was not quite indignant, but it tended toward that route.

If Valjean was thrown by Javert’s sudden change of attitude, he did not say so. Instead, he replied, “Because whether you realize it or not, you have been a friend to me. Now, if you are quite done questioning my choice of phrase, please do come and eat breakfast before you go to the police depot.”

Javert tucked into a plate of eggs with more enthusiasm than he would normally have allowed. As he ate, he could feel Valjean’s eyes on him from time to time when the man would glance up from his own food. He was not sure what reason the attention had for bringing color to his cheeks, he only knew that it did. Cosette sat between them, apparently unaware of the silent exchange happening on either side.

As the Inspector prepared to leave, thanking Valjean for his courtesies, the other man stopped him with a word and a surreptitious glance.

“Javert,” Valjean started quietly when he was sure Cosette was out of earshot, “you are, I assume, familiar with the Jardin du Luxembourg?”

“I should hope so,” returned the Inspector, wondering where, exactly, Valjean was leading with this.

Valjean took a breath and looked around again. “I've been meaning to ask - have you ever sent spies there to follow anyone?”

Javert frowned his confusion. “Not to my recollection.”

Pinching his lips, Valjean shook his head. “I was afraid you would say that.”

“What is this about?” Javert buttoned his coat, looking Valjean in the face curiously.

“For a time, Cosette and I would take a walk through the gardens nearly every day,” Valjean explained, keeping his voice low. “Then, I began to notice a young dandy who would come and sit on a bench nearby. It seemed he always arrived there just after we did. And he seemed to stare at us. I grew suspicious, and we stopped going.”

“Because you thought perhaps he was investigating you on my behalf?” Javert’s lips lifted in something like a smile. “It would have been clever, but you overestimate me - I never had any knowledge of your going to Luxembourg.”

Valjean nodded, his eyes downcast.

“This to you is a bad thing?” the Inspector inquired. “I would have thought it a relief.”

The older man hesitated. “There was a time when it would have been,” he said. “But that was before we had come to a... reconciliation. Now, the notion that someone else might have been following me becomes more of a concern.”

Javert nodded. “I can see why,” he conceded, “but you said you stopped going. Why bring this up now if you haven't seen the man again? You haven't seen him, have you?”

Valjean shook his head no. “But,” he said, “I found footprints in the garden. They are too small to be mine, too large to be Cosette’s.”

“You worry someone is watching the house.” When Valjean nodded, Javert sighed. “You are right, that is troubling. When did you find the footprints?”

“Yesterday,” Valjean whispered. “If anyone else knows who I am - Javert, I have to keep Cosette safe.”

The Inspector rested a hand on Valjean’s elbow until he seemed to quiet. “I will look into it,” Javert assured him. “If there is nothing specific I must go over at the station house today, I will head to Luxembourg and have a look around. Would that suffice?”

Valjean’s expression of gratitude brought the smile back to the Inspector’s face. “I cannot require it of you,” Valjean said. “But I would appreciate it if you could.”

“Be on your guard,” Javert cautioned, “for Paris has been dangerous of late, but it may well be that it is nothing.”

He set his hat on his head so that it obscured the majority of his bandages and let himself out. He walked quickly in the direction of the police station, thinking hard. If there was even the slightest chance that somebody else knew about Valjean’s background, it could put the both of them in a very difficult position. His resolve hardened the further he walked - he would pay a visit to the Jardin du Luxembourg. If there was a trail, chances were that it was cold, but it would give him a place to start.


	12. In which shadows of the past come forward

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My family is leaving tomorrow on vacation; I will continue to write and update during our trip to the best of my ability, but I may not be able to be as consistent about it, seeing as I may or may not have wifi. Thank you in advance for your patience. 
> 
> Also, I would like to once again express my thanks for all those who have left comments - your feedback means so much to me!

It had not been the easiest thing in the world for Javert to convince Gisquet to let him investigate the Jardin du Luxembourg, which fell outside his usual area of jurisdiction. In the end, it took explaining that a concerned citizen feared they were being followed to sway him. The Inspector felt vaguely guilty about the misdirection, but everything he said was technically true. 

Gisquet gave him the afternoon to look into the matter, which left him to read reports all morning. Usually, this would have peeved him, but there was a crisis in the city, with more and more officers filing statements on secret transactions, crates they suspected but could not prove were shipping arms, radical, seditious speech shouted in the streets - the situation was escalating out of control.

The Javert who left the depot at the bell-tower's toll of half-past noon was a harried one. The Prefect wanted him back by four, which hardly gave him enough time, but it could not be helped. Things being what they were, he supposed he ought to be grateful Gisquet had allowed him any time at all.

Despite the rising tensions, the Jardin du Luxembourg was full of visitors. Set inside Paris’ sixth arrondissement, it was a picturesque swath of greenery in the city. Lovers strolled hand in hand along winding paths through the orchard, and small children played hoop and stick on the paving stones, or sailed paper boats in the basin. Javert had little patience for art, though he supposed he could see why Valjean favored the place, with its statues and fountains dispersed among beds of flowers. 

Today, the Inspector’s attention was for none of it. Valjean had given him the place, a group of benches away from the main thoroughfare where he and Cosette liked to sit. It was trickier to find than he would have imagined, but at last he managed to locate what he was sure must be it. The benches were deserted that afternoon, and Javert frowned. A cold trail it was, indeed. 

The benches were nothing extraordinary, and though Javert looked carefully, he saw no unusual markings which might communicate a message to a criminal. A few were carved with the initials of couples who once had sat there, but the Inspector ruled those out as unlikely. No tokens lay forgotten in the grass, nor did he notice anyone especially suspect in the vicinity. He was prepared to call it a lost cause when he was passed by a young man in a top hat and tailored coat.

Javert stood near a tree, pretending to be nothing more than another bored policeman, dazed to a state of hypnosis by the summer heat. The man - and he seemed to fit Valjean’s description of a dandy - paused in front of one of the benches. He spoke into the empty air, as if rehearsing a speech, and Javert strained to catch his quiet words over the rustling of the leaves in the wind.

“- tonight -” he heard, and then “- Cosette -”

The Inspector's eyes narrowed. This was him, then, without a doubt. What did this boy want with Valjean’s ward? 

As he pondered the issue, it occurred to Javert that the man looked rather familiar, with his short, tawny hair and proud manner, wearing clothes too shoddy for the usual bourgeois. Then the man turned, and getting a better look at him, the Inspector found he recalled the face. The memory took him back several months, to a lad who had entered the police station to report a robbery being plotted by his neighbors. The memory of that night returned to him in a flash, and Javert’s mouth opened in a silent gasp of understanding as several pieces fell into place at once.

Then the bell rang out the hour, and Javert swore. He would be late talking to Gisquet if he did not leave then and there. Sparing a final glance for the youth, who by now was on his way down the path, the Inspector set off on his own route out of the garden. If he was correct in his deduction, then Valjean would have nothing to fear on the matter of his persistent shadow.

* * *

Gisquet was standing at his window when Javert entered the Prefect’s office.

“You wished to see me, Monsieur?”

“Inspector,” said the Prefect, turning from his silent contemplation of the street. “Were you able to take care of the business surrounding the gentleman at Luxembourg?”

“Yes, sir,” Javert replied. “It seems to have been a rather trivial issue in the end.”

“That is good to hear.” The Prefect’s face was unusually grave as he approached the Inspector. “Javert, I must ask something of you, though I hate to do so.”

“Monsieur, you know you may ask of me whatever you require,” Javert said slowly. “How may I be of service?”

Gisquet massaged his chin. “We are in a perilous situation, Inspector. Tomorrow, the funeral cortège for General Jean Lamarque will make its way through the city, taking its first stop at the  Place Vendôme.”

Javert hummed his understanding. “It was in the papers when he died - cholera, was it not?”

The Prefect confirmed as much with a nod. “The city is like so much dry kindling. This could be the spark that lights it. If riots break out, and all evidence suggests that they will, we will need people we can trust to go among the rebels and find out what they can.”

“I see.”

Gisquet looked away, walking to his desk and resting a hand on it. “I have spoken to a few of my other officers. So far, I have volunteers who will cover  the  Place Vendôme and the Place de la Bastille. I would like to have someone scope out the St. Merry neighborhood as well, and so my thoughts turned to you.”

Javert drew himself up straighter. “Understood, Monsieur. I will go.”

The Prefect turned and regarded him somberly. “Think carefully, Javert. This is not an order - I will only send those who wish to go. If you are discovered, you will probably be killed.”

Exhaling heavily, Javert inclined his head. “I know,” he said. “But it must be done, for the good of the public, and so I will do it.”

Gisquet smiled slightly. “Let no one say you are anything but an asset to the force, Inspector. I would wish you good luck, but we both know luck has nothing to do with it.”

* * *

The city lay still as the Inspector trudged back to the Rue Plumet, but it was the stillness of a tiger, coiled and ready to strike. One could have cut the tension with a knife, and even nature Herself seemed inclined to respond, for tall thunderheads gathered on the horizon. A storm was coming.

When Javert arrived at number fifty-five, it was to a flurry of activity. He hailed Toussaint, who was rushing past with her arms full of linens.

“Oh, it is Monsieur Fauchelevent,” she explained, pausing in the foyer. “He is insisting we move immediately to one of the other houses he is renting.”

“What?” Javert asked in surprise. “Why?”

The woman wrung her hands. “He won't say, perhaps you can talk some sense into him, Monsieur. My poor lady Cosette is positively distraught.”

“I will do what I can. Where is he?” 

“In his room, upstairs.”

Javert took the steps two at a time. Valjean’s door stood open on its hinges, with Valjean himself standing at the bed, violently stuffing clothes into a suitcase.

“Valjean!” Javert hissed. “What on earth is the matter with you?”

Valjean looked up, a sort of horror in his eyes, and Javert took a step back, but then before he knew it, Valjean was clutching him tightly around the shoulders.

Javert cleared his throat. “Valjean? Care to tell me what's going on?” He did not know what to do with his hands, and so he stood there rigid as a board.

“Javert,” Valjean said into his shoulder, and the Inspector was struck by how small his voice was. “Thank God you came back before we left, I was worried -”

“But why are you leaving?” Javert asked, taking another step back to look Valjean in the face. “What has happened?”

Valjean shook his head and motioned for Javert to follow him into the bedroom. The Inspector spared a glance for the stark interior; unlike much of the rest of the house, Valjean’s private chamber had little in the way of adornment sans a few pieces of furniture and a cross that hung over the bed. Shutting the door with a soft click behind them, Valjean leaned against it and rubbed his face.

“I don't want to frighten Cosette,” he began.

Javert snorted. “I think you've failed that already, by the sound of things.”

Valjean winced. “You may be right,” he agreed, “but she would be even more frightened if I told her what happened.”

“But what _did_ happen, Valjean?” Javert asked in exasperation. “You're talking in circles.”

“Thénardier,” said Valjean, and with that one word, the Inspector felt a chill run through his blood. 

“Go on.”

Chewing his lip, Valjean crossed to the bed, where he promptly sat down. 

“I was in the garden again this morning, and -”

“Wait,” Javert interrupted. “You sent me for news today; well, I have news.”

Valjean looked at him expectantly. 

“I went to the Jardin du Luxembourg, as you requested. At first, I saw nothing at the place you described, but as I stood there, a young man appeared and spoke to an empty bench. He appeared to fit the profile of your shadow, and I overheard him say a name - ‘Cosette’. Perhaps your daughter has a secret lover.”

Valjean’s face fell. “I knew it,” he groaned. “She's become so pretty, it was only a matter of time -”

“There is more,” said Javert. “I recognized the boy. He came to the station some time ago. His name was... Pontmercy, or some such. Apparently, he had overheard his neighbors plotting to rob some poor philanthropist of his riches, and took it upon himself to alert the police. I gave him a pair of pistols; he was to fire them as a sign that we should enter the house to make the arrest.”

“I do not see what -”

“The tenement he was lodged in is called the Gorbeau House.”

Valjean’s mouth opened as he came to the same conclusion Javert had drawn.

“Ah.”

Javert did not quite laugh, but it was a near thing. “I wondered, at the time, if that could have been you who the Patron Minette managed to grab. You forgot your file on the floor, you know.”

“They tried to blackmail me. They were going to use Cosette,” Valjean said quietly. His voice hardened as he added, “They learned quickly that I am not easy to intimidate.”

Javert dipped his head. “I do not doubt it. Goodness knows I've never had an easy time of it.”

He said it in irritation, but was privately relieved when Valjean chuckled faintly.

“So,” Javert continued, “I doubt you have much to fear from the boy. He is, in my opinion, a bit of a fop and most certainly a twat, but generally harmless and inclined towards your well-being.”

Valjean sighed. “If only it were that simple,” he said. “But as I said, it is Thénardier who troubles me now, not this... prospective suitor.” The distaste in his voice belied that assessment, but Javert did not comment, listening quietly as Valjean spoke. 

“I told you about the footprint. Well, that was not the only violation of my garden. This morning, I discovered a strange line scratched upon the inside wall: sixteen, Rue de la Verrerie. Not only that, but I am certain I recognized Thénardier on the street, prowling about. You no doubt heard about his escape from La Force!”

When the Inspector nodded, Valjean drew breath. 

“He wanted my money before - I do not think he will be merely content with that now. I have been of a mind to leave for several days. Tonight, I know I must.” 

He thrust a scrap of paper in Javert’s hand; opening it, Javert beheld an untidy pencil scrawl, which spelled, _MOVE OUT_.

“Someone - I do not know who - dropped it into my lap as I was studying the marks on the wall. It is clearly a warning. I have kept a house rented in the Rue de l’Homme-Armé for some time. We can go there immediately.”

Javert considered this, turning the facts over in his mind. Finally, he said, “Your paranoia has always seemed to serve you well, and in this case it may be no different. If it is as you say, and Thénardier is about, then perhaps moving is a more prudent measure than I had supposed. He is the worst sort of criminal, a devil of a man. Have you everything packed?”

“Yes,” Valjean replied. “Very nearly.” 

“Good, then. Give me a bag, and I shall carry it for you.”

Javert stepped into the hall, carting a bag of clothing, when Cosette came hurrying out of her room, clutching her writing desk and blotter to her chest. 

“Oh, Inspector,” she cried, seeing him. “Isn't it awful? Why are we leaving?”

Unsure how to respond, Javert hesitated. “Your father is concerned for your safety,” he said. “You will be better off elsewhere.”

“You cannot mean you support this, too!” exclaimed Cosette. “Oh! Why - it's simply awful!”

She fled, and Javert was rather afraid to have seen tears in her eyes. 

The Inspector met the women downstairs, already waiting in a carriage outside. Cosette was huddled against Toussaint, the very picture of misery. Toussaint, for her part, appeared somewhat perturbed, but this was due less to their leaving and more to the cause, naturally concerned that her master thought them to be in some danger. 

Javert waited beside the carriage for Valjean, who exited number fifty-five with a single other bag in his hand. Once Valjean had seated himself, Javert climbed in as well. As the vehicle trundled off, the Inspector watched carefully out the window, but in the long shadows of evening, he saw no one. It was disquieting, but at least he felt confident they were not being followed.

Number seven, the Rue de l’Homme-Armé, was a far less pleasant affair than the house which preceded it. In entering, Javert had to question Valjean’s taste, for the cramped front room was dusty, the mirror cracked, and the old furniture hideous. Valjean, on the other hand, looked one-hundred times better, clearly thankful to be away from the looming danger Thénardier presented. They had no sooner laid down their things than he asked Toussaint to prepare an evening meal.

Where she procured the cold game bird from, Javert could not say, and he was quite content to keep it that way. It was stringy, but he had eaten worse, and Cosette was so withdrawn, far from her usual enthusiastic self, that Javert decided it best not to say anything at all. One way or another, everyone else seemed to be of the same mind, and so the meager dinner was eaten in silence around the cobwebbed table. 

When Cosette finished, she excused herself with a headache, and Toussaint followed her upstairs to help her prepare a bed. The two men stayed put at the table, listening to the wind sigh around the eaves.

“It will storm tonight,” Javert commented, aware of the electricity infusing the air with static.

“So much the better,” Valjean responded with satisfaction. “It will cover any traces we might have left.”

“There will be an onslaught of another sort tomorrow,” said Javert, leaning back in his chair. 

Valjean raised his eyebrows. “How do you mean?”

Javert recounted some of what the Prefect had said regarding the riots, and Valjean shook his head.

“It is a fool’s errand if they think they can overcome the national guard,” Javert added, “but perhaps they will try even so.”

“And what part will you play in all this?” asked Valjean, steepling his fingers on the table.

A smirk pulled at the corner of Javert’s mouth. “I am to go about St. Merry and investigate.”

Frowning, Valjean asked, “And if you are caught?”

“I will not be caught.”

“You are very sure of that.”

Javert tossed his head. “I am a competent officer, a fact which I think you know. If I get caught, well, then, I probably had it coming.”

“But you could be hurt!” The worry in Valjean’s voice did not cause the Inspector quite the confusion it would have once, but it still left him feeling somewhat off-balance. 

“I will be careful.” He tried to take as much of the brusqueness as he could out of the reply, though he was not sure he succeeded. Regardless, Valjean gave him a small smile. He seemed about to reply when his eyes, looking past Javert’s shoulder, landed on something behind the Inspector. In that moment, Valjean’s expression passed from one of brief perplexment to one of utmost dismay. 

“Valjean?”

Heedless, Valjean rose slowly from his chair, his face white as a ghost. Javert stood halfway out of his seat, watching as Valjean paced a semi-circle around the table to the sideboard under the mirror. Cosette had set her things on the piece of furniture before dinner, and had forgotten them there. Valjean was staring at the tilt of the mirror as if all the demons of Hell were looking back from it.

“What is this?” he whispered.

“What is what?” This time, Javert made no effort to lessen the curtness in his voice.

Silently gaping, Valjean gestured at the mirror. Javert, in looking at it, saw nothing amiss.

“Do you have a point to make?” the Inspector asked. 

Valjean reached out a hand and lifted the blotter from where Cosette had discarded it. He examined it, his countenance contorting between shock, anguish, relief, and then back to despair as he returned the item to its place and again perceived whatever so troubled him about the mirror.

Javert lifted his eyes briefly to the Heavens, before he went and stood by Valjean’s side. Peering at the mirror, he at first saw nothing. Then, his eyes landed upon the reflection of the girl’s blotter, and suddenly he understood: the open page had been used to blot a message, one which reflected in the mirror’s surface.

It read: _My beloved, alas! my father wishes us to leave immediately. We shall be to-night in the Rue de l’Homme-Armé, No. 7. In a week, we shall be in London. COSETTE. June 4th._

“It cannot be,” whispered Valjean. He stood aghast, his eyes only for the message, which in spite of its brevity seemed to impart a crushing weight on the older man. “Cosette...”

Javert let out a small exhalation. “It would seem I was correct in my assessment,” he muttered. “Though I did not expect your daughter and the boy in the gardens to be exchanging notes. I did not give her enough credit. She's as resourceful as you are.”

“Javert,” said Valjean, in a voice which was nearly a sob. “What do I do? ‘My beloved’ - she loves him, then - she loves him, and has no more use for me!”

Extending an arm, Javert laid a cautious palm on Valjean’s back. He and comfort were no longer strangers, but they were not yet quite acquaintances. Valjean looked up at the touch, his eyes glossed over, and Javert found that his words stuck in the back of his throat. 

“You are a good father,” he managed. “And Cosette is full of vivacity. I cannot imagine she would be incapable of sharing her affections.”

“But...” Valjean’s eyes fell out of focus as he gazed into a dark and terrible void. “If she leaves with this... _interloper_... I will be alone.” A single tear rolled down his cheek, leaving a trail that glimmered like starlight.

Javert, thoughtless, acting on an instinct which never before had he had cause to employ, reached out and wiped the tear from Valjean’s face with the pad of his thumb. Valjean started, and met the Inspector’s eyes. It occurred to Javert how very close they were standing in that dark and unpleasant little hovel, their chests nearly touching. He even fancied he could hear Valjean’s heartbeat, though perhaps it was only the pounding of blood in his ears. 

“You are not alone,” Javert whispered. 

Valjean continued to look up at him, and Javert could no longer tell if his eyes shone with tears or with some other emotion. If he was about to speak, he changed his mind, and instead dropped his head on the Inspector’s shoulder, burying his nose in the crook of Javert’s neck and wrapping his arms tight around his waist. Keenly aware of the novelty, Javert slid his own arms around Valjean’s shoulders. They stood there, in a quiet embrace, for some time.

Outside, a frisson of electricity sparked in the atmosphere, jumping in the anvil-headed clouds like a white spear of light. It was followed by thunder, which rolled as the beating of drums over Paris. Soon after came the rain, pouring down across the city in icy grey sheets. It was Monday, the fourth of June, in the year 1832, and in but a few hours, it would be the fourth no more. 

The rain poured. It cleared the streets, washed the city of its filthy coating, and perhaps in so doing, the storm performed a duty of its own, preparing the way for a still greater storm which would come with morning. 


	13. In which it is June 5th, 1832

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am attempting to queue this up to post in case I do not have internet connection. Also, be aware that some of the dialogue in this chapter is pulled directly from the brick for authenticity's sake.

Javert woke, his cheek pressed to the wood plank floor where he had fallen asleep. It had demanded some effort to make Valjean take the armchair, but the Inspector’s stubbornness was nearly legendary. He had managed it. 

Sitting up, he found himself stiff, though not to the extent which he feared he might be. Javert stretched, and made his way to the room’s single dingy window. The panes were stuck fast in place, but he could see well enough outside to tell the rain had passed. In its place, the sun shone brightly, its face scrubbed clean.

Behind him, Valjean stirred. 

“Javert?” he murmured, sitting up in the worm-riddled armchair. 

“No one tried the door during the night,” said Javert softly. “It is as I said - you were not followed here.”

There was a smile in the voice which replied, “Good.” 

Turning, Javert faced back into the little room. “I must go,” he said. “Lamarque’s cortège will begin this morning, and I must see Gisquet again before I go to St. Merry.”

Valjean groaned as he stood; if anything, he looked to be stiffer than the Inspector, but then, he was also older. He made his way around the table to where Javert stood at the window, and at that distance, it was plain Valjean had not slept well. There were shadows under his eyes, and a deepness to the lines on his face which had not been so apparent the day before.

“Please be careful,” Valjean pleaded.

“I said that I would be.”

“I know.” Valjean sighed. “And I know that you mean it. I just cannot keep myself from worrying.”

“I would expect nothing less from you,” said Javert dryly. “I have been at this for decades now, Valjean, I think I can manage another day of it.”

“You will come back here when you are done?”

“If you wish I would.” When Valjean nodded, the Inspector added, “We will see each other again.”

A sixth sense told him this was true, and Valjean’s half-smile was strangely gratifying. He clapped his hand briefly to Valjean’s shoulder, pulling away to leave. 

Outside, the air was humid, and the streets not yet dry under a blue and cloudless sky. Javert walked at a fast clip. There were few people outside that early; those there were dressed all in black. 

At the police depot, Gisquet stood in the lobby, surrounded by half a dozen other officers. To each, he disseminated envelopes containing their respective assignments; hearing the door, he looked up.

“Inspector, good,” the Prefect said. “I have your papers here.” He passed Javert an unsealed envelope. “There is another matter for you to look into once we’ve quelled any outbreaks of violence.”

Opening the letter, Javert removed a slip of parchment. On it was written, _As soon as his political mission is fulfilled, Inspector Javert will ascertain, by a special examination, whether it be true that malefactors have hideouts on the slope of the right bank of the Seine, near the bridge of Jena_. 

“There is an entry to the sewers there, is there not?” the Inspector inquired.

“There is,” replied Gisquet. “And we have gotten word of suspicious persons moving in and out of sight around it.”

Javert nodded. “Very well, as soon as this ‘political’ business is concluded, I will find out what I can.”

“Excellent. And -”

The Prefect was interrupted by the door to the station bursting open, slamming against the wall with a bang. The room’s occupants spun around to see officer Duchamps standing in the doorway, doubled over panting. 

He looked up, sweat dripping from his face and mingling with something redder. “It's started,” he gasped. “I ran - all the way here. They took the hearse - shots were fired - they're building barricades.”

Gisquet stepped forward even as two others rushed to help support Duchamps. 

“This is it,” the Prefect said. “The national guard will be brought in by late afternoon. In the meantime, each of you will be needed to find out whatever you can to aid them. You have your assignments - disguise yourselves and do your duty well.”

There was a chorus of, “Yes, sir”. 

Javert took to his office, peeling off his greatcoat and leaving it folded neatly over the back of his chair. He tucked his hair under a cap as he had the day before and pulled an old tunic over his shirt. It was not an ingenious costume, but he rarely found himself on patrol in the St. Merry district, and so he was not especially worried about being recognized. He clipped the Prefect’s envelope to the fob of his pocket watch, and stuck his purse in his pocket. Thus equipped, there was only one other component the Inspector’s outfit would require to allow him to pass for an insurgent.

He handled the musket with care. It was more appropriate to the guise of a common citizen than Javert’s usual silver pistols, and anyway, he had never gotten those back from Cosette’s beau. He did not load the gun. It was not as if he meant to fire on the national guard, and he would not be shooting the students, either. That was not his place. Preparing himself did not take long. After that, there was nothing else to be done but leave.

The streets outside, which had been so quiet the day before, now echoed with the sound of distant shouting. Javert took back roads and alleys, striving to avoid any citizen who might see him for who he was. He passed near the northeast side of the Parisian markets, and had just entered the Rue des Billettes when he became aware of a small crowd of people rushing from the direction of the Rue Saint-Denis. 

The Inspector passed down the length of the Rue des Billettes and slipped into the back of the party, waving cordially at the group of three rebels who seemed to notice his approach. They were all three of them students, it appeared, two of them being dark of hair and the third hosting a shower of gold curls. They did not question Javert, and he said nothing, playing the role of a volunteer no different from those now pouring into the street. 

The Rue Saint-Denis became the Rue de la Chanvrerie, which gradually narrowed the further down it one went. At the end of it was a sort of plaza; the access to the market was cut off, and so it looked like a cul-de-sac, except for the two dark openings between houses where the Rue de la Chanvrerie intersected with the Rue Mondétour. In the center of the plaza stood the Corinth, a popular tavern. Around it were dozens of houses and tenements, all in dismal states of disrepair. The very air of the street stunk with garbage and human waste.

Javert took all this in automatically. If the students decided to build their barricade here, as seemed the case, then they were greater fools than he had took them for. Granted, the narrowing of the street would give them a more defensible position, and there was not much in the way of cover for the national guard coming from the Rue Saint-Denis, but by that same token, it would take little effort for the army to pigeonhole the insurgents, trap them at the end of that bottleneck, and then set them under siege. 

At a shout from some student within the Corinth, the whole mob seemed to take to the idea of the barricade. Even as the rebels began tearing paving stones from the ground, shopkeepers on every side of the street closed and barred their doors. Above, windows and shutters were drawn shut as other citizens hid in their homes. 

Javert stepped out of the way, keeping to the edges of the crowd, as iron bars were ripped from the front door to the tavern. The student who had first called his fellows to the tavern was joined by a small child in tipping over barrels of lime and unused wine casks dragged from the cellar of the Corinth. Around it, more of them piled stones and boards. Just then, an omnibus came rocketing down the end of the street. The Inspector did not see how it happened, but one of the insurgents got hold of it, dragged it to the barricade, and once having released the horses, a group of them overturned it to finish fortifying the Rue de la Chanvrerie.

At the same time, Javert had been recruited to help pile furniture and barrels in the opening to the Rue Mondétour. He worked slowly, methodically stacking stones as he listened to the impassioned speech around him. No one seemed to notice the way his eyes glinted, or how he took in every detail, noting faces and names and actions. 

There was a tinkle of glass; someone had begun smashing street lamps. Meanwhile, the main barricade had grown tall, brushing the bottom of the second story of the houses around it. The one on which Javert labored was smaller, but no less efficient a blockage for the cramped side street.

As it neared completion, the Inspector excused himself and entered the Corinth. There was a crowd around the fireplace, as pewter plates and bowls were melted down into more bullets. Javert ghosted past these to the door to the basement, which stood open wide. He passed down the stairs to the lower level, where a handful of tables were scattered about in the dim light. A second door lead to the outside, where the grade sloped away from the building. 

Most of the tables were spread with gunpowder; in apparent response to this, the young boy from earlier was seated on the floor of the basement next to two candles, which were thusly kept away from the explosive powder. He, like those upstairs, was painstakingly making cartridges.

Javert squinted in his observation of the boy. Something about him was distinctly familiar, but with everything that he had been focusing on, that singular detail escaped his recollection. Javert frowned and took a seat in the darkest corner, concealed by the deep shadows. There he closed his eyes, folded his hands over his musket, and replayed all which he had seen, making certain to account for everything. 

He was aware of one way out of the Rue de la Chanvrerie, which was the second opening onto the Rue Mondétour directly to the east side of the Corinth. The insurgents had barricaded only the first opening on the west side, so as to allow themselves an escape route. He could sneak out through that opening, and afterward it would be a simple matter of returning to the station to give his report to Gisquet. 

Of the rebels he had observed, the majority were students, although there were working men among their company. They had guns to spare, for they had raided an armory, but if their frantic production of cartridges was anything by which to judge, then they were pressed for ammunition. Javert allowed a smirk to momentarily cross his features; the national guard, when they arrived, would have no such shortage. 

It was in the midst of these meditations that Javert heard someone enter; it was the blond from that morning, whom Javert had since learned was called Enjolras, and he shook the shoulder of the boy.

“You are small,” Enjolras said. “Nobody will see you. Go out of the barricades...” Javert stopped listening. The conversation was trivial.

The Inspector was composing an estimate on how long the rebel’s guns could be expected to last when he was troubled again, this time by the quiet footfalls of several people entering the room at once. His attempts to ignore the noise were overridden by a prickling along his neck that suggested he was being watched.

Then Enjolras’ imperious voice rang out. “Who are you?”

Javert opened his eyes. The student stood before his table, and in the periphery of his vision, Javert could make out a small group of men fanned around him. There, next to Enjolras, stood the boy, who stared at him fiercely. Only then did the Inspector recognize him. It was the same child who had stolen a piece of bread in the market a few days past - the same child who Javert had let go. 

Javert looked again at Enjolras and knew with a cold certainty that he had been found out. He stood slowly.

“I see how it is,” he said.

Enjolras regarded him coldly. “You are a spy?”

The student knew the answer, and Javert abhorred lying. Even if he tried to do so, there was enough identifying material on his person to show plainly who he was if he were searched. As such, Javert just smiled the smile of a martyr. 

“I am an officer of the government.”

“And your name is?”

“Javert.”

Enjolras gestured; before Javert so much as had time to turn around, the other men leaped at him. Someone grabbed him by the collar, simultaneously wrenching him backward and choking off his windpipe. Next, he was thrown to the ground. A sharp pain lanced through his knees as they struck the stone floor, and then his head was likewise forced down against the pavement. He tasted blood in his mouth, and if the wetness on his face were an indicator, the scab over his older scrapes had cracked.

Javert was conscious of his hands being bound tightly behind his back, and then of his pockets being searched. He offered no protest, just panted quietly. There were four of them pinning him down, and he heard one’s intake of breath as they discovered his small Inspector’s badge, and then the letter with his instructions from the Prefect. 

Then he was dragged to his feet, and two of the men held him against the central column of the basement as the other two lashed him to it. While this was done, Javert looked on with a supreme air of boredom. The boy, with his sandy hair, gazed levelly back.

“The mouse has caught the cat,” the boy gloated.

By now, the others had either seen or heard the commotion, and so a large group of them rushed in from the barricade.

“It is a spy,” Enjolras explained, waving his hand at Javert. He turned to the Inspector. “You will be shot ten minutes before the barricade is taken.”

Javert raised his brow. “Why not immediately?”

“We are economizing powder,” came the reply.

“Then do it with a knife,” Javert dared. 

It was plain, however, that Enjolras was not to be baited. “Spy,” he said, “we are judges, not assassins.”

The Inspector thought to himself that the roughshod assembly surrounding him were as much judges as he was a farmer, but he said nothing more, choosing instead just to sneer and stare at the wall. 

“Wait,” the child spoke up. Everyone turned to face him. “This same cat caught me out with a bourgeois’ breakfast barely a week ago. He let me off. Do we have to shoot him?”

Enjolras faced Javert again. “One of the people pleads your case. What say you, spy? No doubt you know something of the national guard’s movements. If you help us, you need not be shot.”

Javert tilted his head back to rest against the wooden column. “I know nothing, and I would tell you nothing if I did. Shoot me.”

“Very well.” Enjolras, apparently concluding his interrogation, tapped the small boy on the shoulder.

“Gavroche,” he instructed, “go about your business!”

“I am going,” replied the boy, but before he got far, he stopped. “By the way, you will give me his musket!” So saying, he snatched up Javert’s gun.

As the crowd dispersed, leaving the Inspector tied firmly to the post, Javert watched the child skip off into the street. If he was concerned for the boy, it was an emotion he buried. The child had chosen his fate the moment he had signed on with these revolutionaries. Still, it was a curious feeling to watch the lad disappear and have to wonder what might become of him, walking unwittingly into a firefight with an unloaded musket.

Once he was alone, Javert took stock of himself. He could from his vantage point see out the door to one side of the barricade. Likewise, the quality of light filtering through the basement’s clerestory windows informed him it was getting closer to twilight. For his own part, it seemed that he had cut his lip, hence the blood which he tasted, but otherwise he could detect only minor injuries. His knees would bruise, but if that were the worst that happened to him, he would be fortunate. 

His hands were pressed awkwardly between his back and the post, and the rope binding him was thick and secure. The fibers dug into his skin, making it all the more uncomfortable to test the limits of his movement. Suffice it to say, the limits were stringent enough to keep him standing and still. It might have been possible to shift positions a little to one side or the other, but as there was no clear advantage to gain from doing so, the Inspector did not waste his energy.

In the far distance, the occasional burst of gunfire could be heard; the national guard had been deployed, then, and were subduing insurgents elsewhere in Paris. No doubt Gisquet would be displeased with the Inspector for failing to return with a report, and it was unlikely reinforcements would be sent to rescue him. Javert’s thoughts returned to the Prefect’s words the night before. _If you are discovered, you will probably be killed._

He laughed to himself with a noiseless irony. So much, it seemed, for years of experience. He had been found out, and by a child, no less. It was like he told Valjean - he had it coming. At that, some of his amusement faded. Javert had no especial fear of death, but Valjean would be upset when he did not return. As comical as it still struck him that Valjean of all people should bother about his welfare, he could not remember the man’s pleas for Javert’s safety and feel anything besides an overwhelming need to see him again. Valjean, it seemed, had come to care for the Inspector, and Javert had come to care for him, albeit more slowly than Valjean with his immediate and unconditional forgiveness. Javert had no desire for the other man’s suffering, not anymore, and he could be honest enough with himself to know that Valjean would indeed suffer if Javert died. 

The Inspector stood motionless, a sort of sentinel waiting in the growing dark. A group of men entered into the basement room, heedless of Javert’s presence, and swept up all the loose gunpowder from the long table into one of their kegs. This they left near the door, and the last man to leave set one of Gavroche’s candles burning on the tabletop before hurrying back out into the falling night. The candle, dripping slowly, shed the only light left in the room, and it wavered in the draft as if it too were afraid of what was to come. 

A terrible and ominous silence had taken over the barricade. Tied where he stood, Javert was left only to imagine the scene, the fifty-odd insurgents huddled behind their wall of debris, and on the other side, an entire legion waiting in the dark with their bayonets. A voice cried out something, a challenge perhaps, and there was an answering cry of, “French Revolution!”. Then the night lit up with gunfire; the national guard had arrived.


	14. In which comes the hour of the wolf

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're back from vacation now! I plan to return to my pattern of updating every other day while I finish off the remainder of the story. Thank you all for your patience; most of the hotels we stayed in had poor (or no) wifi.
> 
> As before, some of this dialogue is coming right from the brick.
> 
> Hour of the Wolf: The hour between night and dawn. It is the hour when most people die. It is the hour when the sleepless are haunted by their deepest fear, when ghosts and demons are most powerful.

For a moment, it was utter chaos. The gunshots came nearer, and Javert knew the guardsmen to be advancing on the barricade. There was a high-pitched cry - the boy Gavroche? - followed by more fire. In the next instant, a young student stumbled into the basement room. He was there only long enough to grab the keg of powder, but it was enough for Javert to catch a glimpse of his features. Sourly, the Inspector recognized him as the same young man who had taken after Cosette. He watched silently as the student, Pontmercy, hauled the keg back out into the street.

Then, as the smoke and dust cleared, Javert heard a voice which echoed across the cul-de-sac: “Clear out, or I'll blow up the barricade!” Immediately, Javert guessed what the boy meant to do with the powder keg, and he added “foolhardy” and “has a deathwish” to his assessment of Pontmercy’s character. Cosette, he decided, could stand to do better.

Foolhardiness aside, it seemed the man’s threat had been taken seriously. There was a break in hostilities as the national guard were presumably engaged in running from the imminent possibility of explosion. A minute later, there was a collective cheer, and then the insurgents retired to the basement room to regroup. A whole crowd of them came pouring in; Javert ignored them passively. Several of them collapsed into chairs, wiping sweat from their brows, and others began unrolling packages of lint to bandage the wounds of their fellows.

Enjolras stood at the head of this crowd and called roll.

“Marius has just joined us. Courfeyrac? Combeferre? Bossuet?”

Each of the indicated men raised a hand.

“Joly? Bahorel? Prouvaire?”

The first two raised their hands, but the third did not.

“Prouvaire?” Enjolras repeated, frowning. “Jehan?”

A low murmur swept the assembly. Heads turned as everyone sought that member of their company, but he was nowhere to be found.

“He is not with the dead,” said Joly, who had been to check.

“Nor is he among the wounded,” concluded Enjolras. “He must be a prisoner.”

One of the students, Combeferre, lifted his head. “They have our friend; we have their officer. Have you set your heart on the death of this spy?” He gestured in Javert’s direction, and the Inspector raised his chin a fraction of an inch.

“Yes,” said Enjolras, “but less than on the life of Jean Prouvaire.”

Combeferre nodded. “I am going to tie my handkerchief to my cane, and go with a flag of truce to offer to give them their man for ours.”

Javert kept his face carefully blank, but inside his heart lightened. Perhaps there was a chance for freedom after all, and to not disappoint Valjean with news of his death. Even as he was thinking this, however, Enjolras laid his hand on Combeferre’s arm.

“Listen,” said the blond.

There was the sound of a great many guns cocking, followed by a single exclamation.

“Long live France! Long live the future!”

There was a flash, and an explosion, and then silence.

“They have killed him!” Combeferre said in horror.

Enjolras turned to Javert, and the look on his face was terrible to behold.

“Your friends have just shot you,” he said.

The rebels left, filing out into the street to take up their position once more, and in their absence, Javert sagged against his restraints. He ached everywhere from standing, but that was the least of his concerns. To have felt hope so briefly only to have it extinguished was more painful by far than than any injury the students might do him. It was harder to remain stoically resigned when for an instant he thought he might live to see Valjean’s smile again. And what of the student, this Prouvaire? Was it so necessary he be shot? Javert’s mouth thinned. It was one thing to act in self-defense, but to shoot a prisoner purely out of spite was surely approaching the realm of brutality.

At that thought, his faintly hysterical laughter took him again. What business did he have troubling himself with the insurgent’s fate when he was now guaranteed to go the same way? It would be Javert’s good fortune if they consented to kill him quickly. He was in the midst of these considerations when the ridiculous one, whom Enjolras had called Marius, entered. He was examining a letter. Next to the light of Gavroche’s candle, he tore open the seal. A phrase murmured aloud startled Javert’s attention.

“- be to-night in the Rue de l’Homme-Armé -”

The words took a moment to register, but then the Inspector realized that this of course must be the letter upon which Cosette had employed her blotter. He watched rather attentively as Marius finished reading. He wrinkled his nose when the lad chose to asperge the letter with kisses (for certainly, Javert said to himself, that was bordering on histrionics), and continued to watch as Marius scratched out a response on a page torn from his pocket-book. He wrote another series of quick lines on the book’s next page before returning it to his pocket and going to leave.

Inwardly, Javert shook his head. While it was possible that Marius did not recognize the Inspector, for they had only met once some time ago, he had scarcely glanced at the prisoner all evening, and as he was tied up in the very center of the room, Javert decided the man’s lack of attention was due likely less to an absence of recognition and more to a sheer determination not to pay attention. Javert cleared his throat. Marius looked up, startled, and his eyes widened when he perceived the Inspector. Grimly, Javert decided that indeed, Marius was about as distracted as was humanly possible. How he had survived the first volley without being shot, the Inspector could not fathom.

“Marius, isn't it?” inquired Javert, unable to make his voice cordial, but at least reasonably sure he had avoided unfriendliness.

“Yes,” replied Marius warily, taking a step closer. “You are a spy?”

Javert chose to ignore this, instead inclining his head at the letter clutched in Marius’ hand.

“You have a sweetheart,” he said.

Marius frowned. “You would know nothing about it.”

“Untrue.” Javert straightened as much as he could against the post. “I am friends with the girl’s father.”

The student shook his head. “You are bluffing.”

“Am I?” Javert looked down at Marius with something like impunity. “Her name is Cosette Fauchelevent. She has blonde curls, and no mother, and her father has hair whiter than the parchment in your hand.”

Marius had, if anything, turned paler still. “How do you know all that?” he asked, his voice quiet and quivering.

Javert approximated a shrug. “It is as I said. Her father and I have known each other since before you were born.”

Marius looked around wildly. They were alone. “What are you doing here, then?” he hissed.

Javert gave him a disparaging glance. “I am an Inspector to the police of Paris. Work it out yourself.”

“But -” Marius bit his lip. “But how can this be? Cosette and I - we have hid our involvement with one another.”

“Poorly.”

“I -” The young man hesitated, dragging his fingers through his hair. “I cannot let you go, Enjolras will forbid it!”

“Of course,” Javert said dryly. “It is good you are loyal, it is the only point in your favor I have yet seen.”

“Monsieur,” said Marius, stepping closer, “you must understand, we mean to fight here and die -”

The Inspector scoffed. “Oh, a pretty thing this is,” he said derisively. “Are you writing to tell her of your impending expiration, then?”

The rising flush on Marius’ cheeks was as good an answer as any.

“Go away,” Javert sighed. “If you are such a ninny hell-bent on throwing your life away, then I shall not be the one to talk you out of your delusions.”

Marius looked affronted, and was drawing himself up to argue the point when Gavroche entered and accosted him.

“You are wanted outside,” said the gamin. This distracted Marius entirely.

“Of course,” he said. “Will you do something for me?”

“Anything. Without you, I should have been cooked, sure.”

“You see this letter?”

“Yes.”

Marius pressed it into Gavroche’s palm. “Take it. Go out of the barricade immediately, and tomorrow morning, you will carry it to its address, to Mademoiselle Cosette, at Monsieur Fauchelevent’s, Rue de l’Homme-Armé, number seven.”

Gavroche scratched his ear uncomfortably.

“Alright,” he said, though Javert felt the boy’s voice had a uniquely suspicious quality to it. He turned around and trotted out.

Marius spared the Inspector a final uncomfortable glance.

“I'm sorry,” he said, “but there's nothing I can do.”

He bolted before Javert could respond, and Javert was left to recline against the column, while from beyond the Corinth the sounds came of the barricade being repaired. Night had well and truly fallen.

* * *

At five o’clock, Valjean was anticipating the Inspector’s return. At six o’clock, he ate listlessly alongside a Cosette who had barely spoken a word all day. By eight o’clock he was pacing, and by nine, he was frantic. Again and again, he told himself that Javert was busy - even there in the little house, they were not so far from the fighting at St. Merry, and every so often, he could hear gunfire. Certainly, then, the Inspector had much work to be done.

Toussaint was as worked up as he was, although it seemed her worry was less specific. She made no less than three exclamations to Valjean that there seemed to be a row of some sort in the street before she retired, evidently frightened by the commotion. Valjean could not have slept for anything in the world. He stoked the fire, swept the floor, wiped the dishes with such force that he cracked one of the mugs - anything to keep moving and distract himself. The bell tolled the eleventh hour.

At last, Valjean could think of no single other thing to do. It was late, but he was not tired. In point of fact, he had not felt so wide awake since perhaps one of the last times he had fled through Paris, Cosette’s then-tiny hand in his. That evening, they had found shelter in a convent, but Valjean was not sure this night could bring him the same happy ending. Javert’s absence was almost a presence in its own right; in the past, Valjean had felt hunted by him, now he felt haunted.

The room was stifling, and he did not think it was because of the fire. Valjean opened the front door; standing half-outside, the sounds of skirmishes were louder. He stepped onto the landing at the top of the front stairs, letting the door swing closed behind him, and took a seat on the first step. If he had hoped for a cool breeze to soothe him, he was disappointed. The air was thick and charged, without even the faintest stirring of wind to relieve it. Burying his head in his hands, Valjean began to pray.

The bell rang out, sending two deep intonations rolling across the city. Much of the gunfire had faded, but Valjean did not dare hope this meant the hostilities were over. And still, there was no sign of Javert. Valjean stood to go back inside, when he spotted a small figure come out of an alley and stand in the street, looking around.

The figure stepped into the lamplight, and Valjean saw it was a child, a boy perhaps eleven years of age, with a mischievous face. The child walked up to the nearest house and tried the door. It was locked. He tried the window, and found it bolted. This he repeated with the other houses in the row, all to the same effect. Apparently stymied, the boy stopped in the street with his hands on his hips.

“Golly!” he said aloud.

Frowning, Valjean stepped down a level and called out, “Little boy, what is the matter with you?”

Gavroche, for it was he, although Valjean did not know it, looked up. “The matter is that I am hungry,” he said. “Little yourself,” he added. The boy bent down and picked up a stone from the ground. “You have your lamps here still.”

He threw the rock with all his might at the street lamp; the glass shattered, and the light went out. Suddenly it was much darker. Valjean dug through his pocket and withdrew a five-franc coin.

“Poor creature,” Valjean murmured. “He is hungry.” Then, “Have you a mother?”

“Perhaps more than you have.”

“Well,” said Valjean, pressing the coin into Gavroche’s hand, “keep this money for your mother.”

Gavroche examined the coin with some excitement before regarding Valjean suspiciously. “Really,” he began, “it isn’t to prevent my breaking the lamps?”

Valjean shrugged. “Break all you like.”

The child grinned. “You are a fine fellow. Do you live here?”

“Yes, why?”

“Could you show me number seven?”

Startled, Valjean inquired, “What do you want with number seven?”

Apparently seeing he had said too much, the boy ran his fingers through his hair nervously. Then Valjean had an idea, a flash of insight, which led his mind back to Cosette’s blotter and the note which she seemed to have sent.

Taking a risk, Valjean asked, “Have you brought the letter I am waiting for?”

“You?” Gavroche frowned. “You are not a woman.”

Inwardly, Valjean felt a surge of victory as he replied, “The letter is for Mademoiselle Cosette, isn’t it? I am to deliver the letter to her. Give it to me.”

The child stuck his hand in his pocket. “In that case, you must know that I am sent from the barricade?”

“Of course,” said Valjean, though he experienced a flutter of fear at the question, for it reminded him of his other concern regarding the Inspector.

Pulling out a paper, the boy saluted. “Respect for the despatch. It comes from the provisional government.” Speaking thusly, he handed the letter to Valjean.

Wetting his lips with his tongue, Valjean chanced a more hesitant query. “Is it to St. Merry that the answer is to be sent?”

Gavroche shook his head. “That letter comes from the barricade in the Rue de la Chanvrerie, and I am going back there. Goodnight, citizen.”

So saying, the boy took his leave, disappearing down the alley from which he had arrived. In but a moment, he had vanished entirely, though Valjean did let out something like a chuckle when a minute later, there came again the sound of a glass lamp breaking from the direction of the Rue du Chaume.

“The Rue de la Chanvrerie,” Valjean muttered. That was in St. Denis, which was in turn next to St. Merry. Javert had said he was assigned to the latter, but then, it was clear that many barricades had been erected that night, and in all the disorder, who could say where the Inspector had ended up? Valjean stood still in the street for several minutes before he came out of his reverie, recalling the letter in his hand. The street lamp having been put out, Valjean retreated to the interior of number seven and sat down next to the fire.

Cosette had received a reply to her little love-note; while Javert’s words had been a comfort the night before, Valjean was now quite alone, and the notion that his daughter might wish to leave him wounded his soul. It was not right to read her letter, he knew this. It had already been transgression enough to find her message in her blotter. And yet, terror gripped him, and Valjean found he had to know one way or another where he stood. With trembling fingers, he unfolded the paper.

Written in a flowing, aristocratic script was the following: _Our marriage was impossible. I have asked my grandfather, he has refused; I am without fortune, and you also. I ran to your house, I did not find you, you know the promise that I gave you? I keep it, I die, I love you. When you read this, my soul will be near you, and will smile upon you._

Valjean’s hand fell to his lap, astonishment written across his features. He had eyes only for the last two lines - the interfering man was going to die at the barricades, and Valjean had to do nothing to keep him from Cosette. He laughed weakly. It was too much a blessing, but surely it was one which he deserved. He had suffered his entire life, and it was right that he should get to keep Cosette to himself, the one bright point in decades of agony.

Pausing, Valjean skimmed over the letter again. Wasn’t it right? He told himself it was so, and yet now a surge of doubt came over him. This man was perhaps dying already, fighting tooth and nail for the future of the people. What business did Valjean have in relishing the death of another? None, he decided, none whatsoever. Then Valjean was ashamed, for he had been delivered a letter in time, maybe, to save the man’s life, but for his own selfish reasons had been fully intent on letting him perish.

Rubbing his forehead, Valjean stood and slipped the letter into his pocket. He would go to the barricade, his conscience would allow him no other course of action, and once there... well, he would see. He changed, pulling on the full garb of a national guardsman, and within the hour was prepared to go. If he were lucky, he thought, perhaps he might also find out what happened to Javert. He prayed it was not too late.

Stealing out into the street, Valjean slipped down the Rue de l’Homme-Armé. He carried a musket, and he walked swiftly in the direction of the markets.


	15. In which a red dawn breaks

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the third consecutive time, have some more partially-brick dialogue. :D

Javert stared at the floor. His eyelids drooped with exhaustion, and it was all he could do to make his legs support his frame. Faint tremors ran through him; it was not fear, for the Inspector felt quite empty of emotion, but the simple physiological response to extensive strain. He concentrated on breathing evenly, utterly indifferent to the insurgents who alternately sat speaking quietly at tables or rolled up strips of gauze to bring the wounded. 

He was so sore; he had lost feeling in his fingers hours ago. What had started as a throb in his head had become a migraine, and he was thirsty. The men had by this time plundered the Corinth’s store of wine, but perhaps there was water to be found somewhere. The Inspector made as if to lick his lips, but stopped. His tongue was too dry to bother. Instead, he sank deeper into a haze of numbness, endeavoring to ignore the sum of his discomforts.

The national guard was taking a long time to launch their second attack, but Javert knew that when they struck, they would redouble their efforts. A cold smile took hold of his features, for he could guess what awaited these rebels in the next round of fire. The guardsmen would drag in the artillery, and under that assault, the barricade would not stand, despite Enjolras’ work to shore up the barrier higher still. And then he would be shot, ten minutes before the barricade fell.

As if to prove the point, Enjolras chose that moment to enter the basement room. Just then, the room was devoid of any occupants sans Javert, as some excitement outside had drawn the others away. Enjolras studied him with a dispassionate air.

“Do you need anything?” Enjolras asked. 

Javert lifted his head and met the insurgent leader’s gaze. “When shall you kill me?”

“Wait,” said Enjolras. “We need all our cartridges at present.”

The Inspector considered this. Need they may have had of their cartridges, but he did not doubt that before the end, they would find one they could spare to plug between his eyebrows. 

At last, he replied, “Then, give me a drink.”

Enjolras nodded without hesitation and he disappeared up the stairs. He returned a minute later with a glass of water. He held it to Javert’s lips, and Javert drank, his eyes closing of their own volition as he swallowed the cold water. Under other circumstances, it might have been humiliating, but here he was a prisoner of war being treated to what might amount to his last rites, and so it was not. 

“Is that all?” asked Enjolras when the Inspector had finished.

“I am uncomfortable at this post,” Javert said, eyeing the restraints with some displeasure. “It was not affectionate to leave me to pass the night here. Tie me as you please, but you can surely lay me on a table.”

Enjolras gestured to a group of men passing outside. At his order, four of them entered to untie the Inspector from the wooden column while a fifth pressed a bayonet against his chest. Javert did not so much as look at the blade. His gaze stayed fixed on a point above the doorway. He did not even startle when two of the men knelt and tied a short whipcord around his ankles. There was enough slack to allow him to take half steps, but nowhere near enough to run. 

The man with the bayonet now pointed it at Javert’s back and indicated for him to move. Javert shuffled to the long table where earlier the rebels had made their ammunition. Enjolras removed the candle, now burning low in its holder, and set it on a different surface. The men had left the Inspector’s hands tied behind his back, so Javert sat on the tabletop and swung his legs up, then scooted awkwardly to the center of the table and laid down on his stomach. A moment later, someone drew a rope up from underneath the sturdy piece of furniture and lashed him to it around his middle.

Apparently not content with the security this measure provided, Enjolras gave the men more rope. With it, they decided to create a martingale. Javert neither protested nor struggled, even as the ligature was drawn against his throat and passed between his legs. After all, he had given his leave that they might bind him as they saw fit. His breath hitched as they finished, for lying on his chest made it harder to breathe even if it did also remove some of the stress from his hands, and the martingale compounded this. 

As the men moved away, Javert, who had turned his head to the side, felt he was being watched. Turning to the other side, the Inspector observed a broad shadow standing in the doorway. The shadow shifted, and its face caught the light. Javert’s eyes widened, and then turned his smile into speech before it could be noticed.

“It is very natural,” he said only, and it was. It was the most natural thing in the world that after so long of running and chasing and following that it should come again to this. Jean Valjean had come to find him at the barricade.

* * *

Valjean waited until Enjolras and the others had gone out into the darkness before he allowed his unreadable expression to turn to one which mingled shock and distress.

“Javert?” he mouthed, crossing the basement room while stealing glances back to check that he was not being observed. “What are you doing here?” he asked, kneeling next to the table so as to look the Inspector in the eyes.

“Dancing a jig,” Javert retorted. “What does it look like I’m doing here?” He held back another string of biting remarks; it was not Valjean’s fault he had gotten into such a mess.

“Javert.” It was somewhere between a whisper and a supplication. “They found you out? Have they hurt you?”

The Inspector could not shrug, so he settled for tilting his chin. “Not unduly. I am rather uncomfortable, but frankly I expected much worse.”

Valjean pressed his hand to his lips, which were thin and white with worry. “Perhaps I can persuade them to let you go.”

Laughing lightly, Javert approximated a shake of his head. “I doubt it. I am to be shot as soon as they can spare the cartridge.” Valjean let out a small cry of alarm, and Javert felt his gaze soften. “And you,” he asked, “why are you here?”

Flushing slightly Valjean dropped his gaze. “The man, the one to whom Cosette has given her heart, he is here.”

“Marius is his name,” Javert confirmed, “and as of yet I am thoroughly unimpressed.”

Valjean sighed, a quiet exhalation which bespoke loss. “It would be selfish of me to leave him to die. Cosette would be destroyed by the news.”

“That is like you,” commented the Inspector. “Do you intend to -” He was cut off by a resounding explosion from outside. 

Valjean whipped around to stare at the door. “Canons,” he said breathlessly. “They will be slaughtered.” Turning back around, he rested a hand on Javert’s cheek. “I will be back,” he said. “I must go try and stop this from ending badly.”

Javert said nothing as Valjean got up and left, but he could not shake the certainty embedded in his bones. This would end worse than badly, he thought. And now Valjean was there to perhaps share in their dismal fates.

He tried to shift, to get even the least bit more comfortable, but the martingale made it impossible. He could not move without choking himself or tugging painfully on his trousers, and so, with a groan of defeat, he consigned himself to laying perfectly still. It was bearable, provided he took shallow breaths, and it was unquestionably an improvement for his legs and feet, which ached from the hours of standing in place. Looking up to the door, he could make out the first light of day beginning to shine through the opening. The long night had come to an end at last, and now by the morning sun, the national guard was prepared for the next wave of assault.

There was another thunderous crash, and then another, and Javert could envision the cannonballs striking the barricade, splintering wood and stone, and annihilating any flesh which was so unfortunate as to get in its path. The discharges ceased, replaced by more grapeshot. From what he could hear, Javert supposed the insurgents were not returning fire. He wondered what Valjean was doing. Would he shoot at the national guard? The ungracious part of him could imagine it, yes, but he did not believe such a scenario was likely.

The sounds of fighting went on for hours. By inches, the daylight grew stronger in composition, until at last over the sounds of gunfire, attackers and defendants alike could hear the bell toll noon. This wrought a change on the remaining rebels; from where he lay prone on the table, Javert could hear Enjolras shout, rallying his forces to strengthen their defenses with more paving stones. It was not long afterward that the blond leader entered the basement room, directing his fellows who came behind him.

“Second story, hold your axes ready to cut the staircase. You have them?”

“Yes.”

“How many?”

“Two axes and a pole-axe.”

“Very well. There are twenty-six effective men left.”

There was an exchange of muskets as Enjolras explained how best to make their last stand. Then he looked at Javert, a dangerous glint in his eyes.

“I won't forget you,” he said. He took hold of a pistol and laid it on the nearest table. “The last man to leave the room will blow out the spy’s brains!”

“Here?” one of the insurgents inquired.

Enjolras shook his head. “No, do not leave this corpse with ours. You can climb over the little barricade on the Rue Mondétour. It is only four feet high. The man is well tied. You will take him there, and execute him there.”

Javert looked impassively at the pistol. That was how it was to be, then. 

Initially unnoticed by the Inspector, Valjean had joined the crowd at the back. Now he stepped forward.

“You are the commander?” he asked of Enjolras. Javert, hearing his voice, stilled even his breath, listening.

“Yes.”

“You thanked me just now,” Valjean continued.

“In the name of the republic,” Enjolras replied. “The barricade has two saviors, Marius Pontmercy and you.”

“Do you think that I deserve a reward?”

“Certainly.”

Javert’s eyes narrowed. He knew Valjean well enough to guess what the man was playing at, but if he could not pull it off, both their lives would be forfeit. 

Valjean clicked his tongue. “Well, I ask one.”

“What?”

“To blow out that man’s brains myself.”

Valjean met the Inspector’s gaze for an instant, even as the rest of the company turned to look at him, and motioned imperceptibly with his hand.

Javert lifted his head enough to speak with a dry, cracked voice. “That is appropriate.”

Enjolras reloaded his carbine thoughtfully. Looking around at the others, searching for any sign of disapproval and finding none, he looked back at Valjean to say, “No objection. Take the spy.”

Valjean sat down on the tabletop. He picked up the pistol and cocked it. Outside, there was a blare of trumpets. As one, the insurgents turned to the door.

“Come on!” shouted Marius from where he was stationed atop the barricade. 

“All outside,” Enjolras ordered, and the rebels, reduced to twenty-odd men, ran out for the last time.

When they were gone, Valjean slid off the table and crouched under it to untie the knot in the rope which held Javert to its surface. Circumspect, the Inspector sat up, moving as slowly as he could so that he would not throttle himself. Once he was standing, Valjean took hold of the martingale gently. 

“This way,” he murmured, leading Javert to the door.

In that instant, the Inspector was of awash with emotions. The first was suspicion, which like any old habit was not easily overcome, and the second was fear, for he could not remember ever in his life having been as vulnerable as he was then, trussed up like a stuck pig, and though Valjean had never been anything but kind and compassionate, there was a part of Javert that was terrified Valjean might suddenly understand just how powerless the Inspector was and use it against him - “ _To blow this man’s brains out myself_ ” echoed in his memory. Under this, however, Javert found a third emotion, which simply put, was trust. And it was this which gave him the willpower to take halting steps after the man into whose custody he had again been delivered.

The insurgents were entirely occupied with fighting, and presumably also with dying. None of them took any notice as Valjean dragged Javert out to the Rue Mondétour. Climbing over the pile of rubble was not an easy task, and every lift of his knees caused Javert significant discomfort, but eventually he managed it. Standing on the other side in the narrow street, it was suddenly much darker, the houses pressing in around claustrophobically. There was a body on the ground, forgotten, with a woman’s face and hair and a hand with a hole through it pressed to her chest.

“It seems to me that I know that girl,” Javert frowned, recognizing Eponine Thénardier. 

Wordlessly, Valjean drew him further down the lane. Once they were sufficiently removed from the fighting, Javert paused as Valjean dropped the pistol and then pressed Javert carefully to the wall, lowering his head to rest on the Inspector’s shoulder. 

“I thought -” Valjean choked on a feeling Javert did not care to name. “Well, when he said to shoot you, I thought I might lose consciousness.”

Javert felt a bubble of laughter escape him. “Your constitution is stronger than that,” he said.

“Just as well,” Valjean returned, raising his head to look at him. “Let me get you out of this,” he added, laying a shuddering hand on the rope wrapped around the Inspector’s torso like a vice.

Javert was careful not to react when Valjean drew the surin from his pocket, even as his heart began to race. Valjean worked quickly to cut off first the martingale, then the rope around his wrists, and then the cord shortening the stride of his legs. When he stood again, returning the knife to his pocket, Valjean took one of Javert’s hands in his own. There was an ugly purple bruise around his wrist where the rope had sunk into his skin, and Valjean was careful to avoid touching it as he massaged some feeling back into Javert’s fingers.

The Inspector noticed in a somewhat distant fashion that his heart was not ceasing its racing. The rough pads of Valjean’s fingertips eased both the tension and circulation in Javert’s muscles, smoothing over his palm and his knuckles and each of his digits.

Javert may have gasped. He told himself he had not, but then Valjean looked up at him again and he was unsure. There was such intimate tenderness in his eyes that the Inspector was certain it must be searing his very soul, and then Valjean’s eyes asked a question, but Javert was too riveted to make any sense of it. The man brought Javert’s hand up close to his mouth, to the point where Javert could feel Valjean’s warm exhalations on his skin. Javert’s heart endeavored to make up for his lungs’ lack of breath by beating a fierce tattoo in his veins, so rapid as to cause his head to swim, and then Valjean, with his eyes never leaving Javert’s for a moment, pressed his lips to the Inspector’s hand.

That time, Javert was forced to admit he gasped. 

“Valjean -” he managed before his voice gave out. 

Valjean reached up and looped his hand loosely in Javert’s hair, mindful as ever of the taller man’s injuries as he pulled his face down closer. 

“Javert,” he murmured back, and the Inspector could feel the way his name moved through the air between them like a sigh. 

Valjean did not move farther, their faces scarcely an inch apart, and Javert understood - Valjean might have initiated this, but he would not be a thief here, stealing kisses he was not wholly sure were welcome. And so Javert did the only thing he could do, past any point of thought or contemplation, and tilted his head just slightly to the side so that he could overlay Valjean’s mouth with his own. Valjean smiled into the gesture, and Javert thought perhaps he smiled crookedly in reply even as his arm snaked around Valjean’s shoulder.

Valjean grabbed fistfuls of the Inspector’s shirt, curling up on his toes to better match Javert’s height. As their chests came together, Javert was pleased to note that Valjean’s pulse was as accelerated at his own.

When they pulled apart, the dim light which fell in the Rue Mondétour was enough to see that Valjean’s face was flushed pink. He looked dazed, like a dreamer, and Javert doubted he looked any less absurd. Reaching out a hand, he cupped Valjean’s chin and could feel the movement of the man’s throat as he swallowed.

“Promise me something,” the Inspector said gruffly.

“What?” The tenderness was back in his face now, as well as something horribly reminiscent of how he looked at Cosette. Adoration, Javert decided. That was the emotion which Valjean displayed so obviously.

“Promise me,” Javert repeated, swallowing now himself, “that when I see you next, you won't pretend as if this didn't happen. Promise me - promise me you will... kiss me like that again.”

“If you wish it,” Valjean breathed.

“I do.”

“Then I promise.”

Javert straightened, still flustered. “You are sure you will not come with me? We could both leave now, together.”

Valjean shook his head. “I cannot,” he said, and there was regret in his voice. “I must see to it that - that Marius survives.”

Dipping his head, Javert conceded the point. He had expected as much. 

“I must go to the station house,” he said. “Gisquet will want to see me. And for goodness’ sake, be careful.”

“I will see you by this evening,” swore Valjean. Squeezing Javert’s hand one more time, he backed up until he found the pistol on the ground. He fired it into the air, and winked with an expression Javert almost might have termed cheeky. Then he turned and strode back down the Rue Mondétour, leaving Javert to watch him go.


	16. In which old wounds are dressed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have a side of ooey, gooey marshmallow-sweet fluffiness with this chapter, or as close to that as I'm ever likely to come to writing.
> 
> Also have a little bit more brick dialogue. Last time, I promise.
> 
> And this chapter is getting put up from my phone, so if anything is wrong with the formatting, I'll try to resolve it ASAP.

“Inspector!” exclaimed the Prefect, jumping up when Javert entered his office. “Tell me you are alive, and that I am not to be troubled forever by your ghost.”

Javert snorted, amused in spite of himself. “I would hope that if I were a spirit, I might at least find a more interesting location to haunt than the police depot.”

Gisquet gave him a rare smile. “Fair enough.” Sitting back down, he drew a sheet of paper towards himself. “Whatever happened, man? You were due to make your report over a day ago.”

Javert bowed his head. “I know, Monsieur, and you have my apologies. I was captured by the insurgents. This rather hindered my ability to make it back in a timely manner.”

The Prefect gave him a look of bewilderment. “You were captured, but you live? How?”

“The renegades required all the ammunition they had to defend themselves,” replied Javert. “Before they found a bullet they could spare, one among them felt... merciful, and decided to set me loose.”

“Thank God for that,” Gisquet said. “You were at St. Merry?”

The Inspector hesitated. “Not quite. There was another barricade on the Rue de la Chanvrerie, near to there. I was recruited by some of their number, and felt it as good an opportunity as any.”

The Prefect nodded. “I wondered. We had news by seven o’clock this morning that the rebels at St. Merry had fallen.”

“It was after noon when I was released,” said Javert. “They were still fighting, but they were down to less than two dozen men. If they have not been taken yet, it won’t be long.” Even as he said so, he thought of Valjean and of the insurgent boy he was saving. Were they still living, he wondered? The Inspector shivered as the image rose unbidden to his mind of Valjean lying on a pile of debris, littered with bullet holes. He pushed it away as best he could.

“We are coordinating now with General Bugeaud,” said Gisquet, naming the commanding officer of the national guard. “His forces will sweep the streets, looking for any remaining insurgents. My men will do the same, but in the sewers and the catacombs. We will have them routed out in due order.”

“I am glad to hear it, Monsieur.”

“And the other matter which you were assigned?”

Javert ducked his head again. “I came directly here from the Rue de la Chanvrerie as I was already late in delivering my report, but I will go this afternoon to investigate.”

Pursing his lips, the Prefect objected. “You have been through an ordeal, Javert. The issue of the riverbank can wait - you should take care of yourself.”

“If I may speak freely, Monsieur, I do not think I will be able to until the unrest in the city is resolved. It would be good to be of use in the meantime.”

Gisquet sighed and waved his hand. “I understand, although I disagree. However, if such is your choice, then I will approve it."

Javert expressed his thanks and took his leave. He went next to his own office, removing his greatcoat from his chair and shrugging the heavy wool over his shoulders. He grimaced as the collar rubbed against where his neck was raw from hempen rope; it took some adjusting to get it to rest suitably. As he stood at the window to do up the buttons, he looked out at the sky. Plumes of smoke rose from several different places - telltale signs of the violence in the streets.

He thought again of Valjean, and then he was not so much buttoning his coat as squeezing the fabric between his fingers as if to choke the life from it. Valjean, in some ways, was as stubborn as he was, particularly when he set his mind to helping another. Logically, Javert knew there was nothing he could have said which would have persuaded Valjean to escape with him, and yet he could not rid himself of the feeling he should have done more.

If Valjean died in his nonsensical endeavor to save Pontmercy’s life, Javert knew beyond the shadow of a doubt he would never move past it. He had been sure of few things since Valjean first spared him. This was one of them.

Javert pounded his fist on the windowsill angrily. It was for this reason that he had asked Gisquet to let him continue with his assignment that afternoon. He could not sit about waiting for Valjean to get back all day or he would lose any semblance of sanity.

Reaching for his pocket, Javert paused as he remembered the rebels taking his instructions from the Prefect when they searched him. Near the bridge of Jena, the paper had read. Someone was making a hideout of the riverbank.

Here, Javert thought himself on solid ground. Difficult as it was, he was coming to see grey areas in the letter of the law, but in this there could be no moral ambiguity. Either there were malcontents using the riverbed as a sort of staging ground for their crimes, or there were not. If there were, he could arrest them, and the citizens of Paris would be better off for it.

The smile that lit his face as he marched from the station house was not quite frenzied, but it was perhaps closer to it than the Inspector would have considered decent.

* * *

Javert took a fiacre to the 16th arrondissement, unable to pretend to himself that he was capable of walking that far after his night on the Rue de la Chanvrerie. His plan was to have the driver stop in the Trocadéro, which at the time of this telling was a modest district of the city, with simple residencies and a few shops standing on top of a hill. However, as they approached the Pont des Invalides, the Inspector noticed a familiar silhouette slouching his way along the side of the street.

Leaning out the window, Javert motioned for the driver to pull over. Disembarking, he came around to the front.

“Follow me,” he told the man. “I am going to cross to the opposite bank. If I wave suddenly, come quickly.”

When the driver had indicated his understanding, Javert walked with unflappable calm over the Pont des Invalides, slowly approaching the figure he had observed. He was able to close the gap between them to perhaps twenty yards before he was noticed, but his quarry did not speed up, evidently aware that to do so would only be to cause the Inspector to similarly hasten his pace.

As he pursued the man, Javert studied the outline of his form, cataloging the slight bow in the legs, the hunch in the shoulders. At one point, the man’s head turned, and in profile, Javert took in a thin, rat-like countenance. A grin returned to his face, this time bespeaking satisfaction. He had been right to follow; the man now walking rather sullenly ahead of him was unmistakably Thénardier.

The Pont d’Iéna, which was constructed over a score’s worth of years prior, spanned the Seine with five tympana over an equal number of arches. The river curved there along the lowest reaches of a hill, and the bridge passed over it. At the street’s edge, there began a quay. This sort of boardwalk sloped from street level down the side of the Seine’s bank until it ran along next to the water. On many days, carriages would drive upon it, so that the horses could drink from the river and refresh themselves. That day of revolution, however, there was no one.

Thénardier diverged from his straight path to the quay, stepping more quickly as he entered onto the boardwalk. Javert’s smirk widened as he followed; it also seemed to confirm the Prefect’s question - if Thénardier were here, there was almost certainly something illegal happening on the riverbank. Perhaps there was even to be a rendezvous with other criminals. If that were the case, the Inspector could perhaps uncover an entire nest of villains.

Javert stepped off the ramp onto the beach. Several yards ahead was a second ramp which rose back up to the street, but Thénardier did not approach it. He only continued along the beach, bypassing the second quay entirely. The Inspector’s smirk became a frown. If Thénardier meant to lose him by coming down here, he would certainly fail. The quay dead-ended, and Thénardier would have nowhere to go. The man had to know that, so what was he planning? He couldn't possibly mean to swim across the river. Javert glanced to the side at the dark, oily water and shuddered in vague disgust.

At the far end of the beach was a pile of construction rubble. Thénardier rounded it, and Javert, abandoning pretense, ran to the small mound, his boots crunching on the sandy gravel of the riverbank. He came around the corner to the end of the quay to find Thénardier nowhere in sight.

Javert was furious. There was no conceivable exit, save by swimming or by scaling the wall of the bridge, and the Inspector could not have missed it had Thénardier attempted either. He placed a gloved hand on the rough stone of the bridge and glared at it as though it offended him personally. As he stood there, one hand on the bridge, the other curled into a fist, he noticed a hole in the wall to his left, which he had not at first perceived. There was a small grated opening, rusted with age and water, and a black sludge oozed slowly out of it.

Crouching, but careful to touch as little of the muck as possible, Javert examined the sewer grate. It was padlocked shut with a thick chain, and rusty as the grate was, the hinges looked recently oiled. Beyond it was some manner of tunnel or corridor. Javert slapped a hand to his forehead as he recalled Gisquet mentioning something about people passing through it.

“This is fine!” he said to himself. “A government key!”

For Thénardier must have possessed one such instrument in order to get through into the sewers. The Inspector stood and spat angrily. The only thing for it was to wait, in the hopes that the criminal might reemerge. Javert turned and waved at his fiacre which had been dutifully following on the far shore. With an answering wave to show he understood, the driver turned the carriage to pass over the Pont d’Iéna.

Javert likewise turned and marched back to the quay, ascending from the edge of the Seine to meet the fiacre.

“We shall have a bit of a wait,” the Inspector informed the driver with a scowl. “You will be compensated for your time.”

The man set the reigns on his lap and agreed affably. So long as he made his living, it was no different to him whether he was driving or sitting. Javert stood at the top of the quay, out of sight from the sewer below but able still to watch it. It was by this time after three; the sun heated the back of the Inspector’s neck.

At first, it was easy just to watch the small ingress, and to contemplate what, precisely, Thénardier might be doing in the sewers of Paris. Robbing corpses, the Inspector imagined, and in all likelihood, hiding from law enforcement. That notion brought some of his earlier satisfaction back to his face. Gisquet had his gendarmes combing the whole system. Whether he exited the sewers through the grate or retreated further into them, chances were high that Thénardier would be captured.

Thinking of Thénardier, however, was enough to eventually bring his thoughts back around to Valjean. If Thénardier were returned to La Force, Valjean would be safe. That was provided, of course, that the man managed to escape the barricade. Of all of the insurgents there, Valjean was the only one Javert attributed any chance of success to. The man’s capacities for escape were hard to parallel. And yet, the Rue de la Chanvrerie was a mousetrap, easily defended but easily sieged, and once overtaken, there could be no way out that did not put the escapee in the path of the national guard’s patrol. Javert shook his head, refocusing. It would be a long afternoon indeed if he kept that up.

The sun began its descent below the skyline late that night. It was perhaps half-past eight when Javert’s fragmented patience was finally rewarded. There was the clinking of metal chain, and then the grate swung noiselessly open. Instantly alert, the Inspector crept down the quay to the beach. From there, the pile of rubble provided cover as he stole back along the bank. Peering around the broken stones revealed a bulky man, drenched the entire length of his body in silty mud, who had apparently collapsed against the side of the bridge. It was not Thénardier, and Javert felt briefly put out. Next to that hulking figure was what looked to be a corpse.

The soaking man (which was not to say that the corpse had fared visibly better) rolled onto his knees and reached into the brackish water of the Seine, scooping up a handful and pouring it into the dead man’s mouth. Perhaps he was not deceased after all, for the soaking man returned to the river and drew up another dosage of water. Javert chose this moment to slide around the rubble and step up behind him, his truncheon ready in hand.

Apparently aware he was being watched, the man at the river turned and froze. At this distance, Javert could see he was bloodied as well as filthy.

“Who are you?” the Inspector demanded.

“I,” came the faint reply.

“What?”

The figure wiped his face fruitlessly and sat up on his knees.

“Jean Valjean.”

Javert’s heart might have stopped. He blinked rapidly, and then stumbled forward to kneel in front of him, tipping the man’s face up with his hands. The Inspector stared disbelievingly as his investigation found that well-known countenance under the layer of grime.

“Jean -!” Javert repeated, and Valjean’s eyes crinkled with weary warmth. “You reek.”

“I know, but there's no time for that. We have to help him,” said Valjean, gesturing towards the body. “He is wounded.”

Standing shakily, Javert walked over to observe Marius, whose head was caked with as much blood as sewer water.

“He is dead,” Javert proclaimed.

“No. Not yet.”

“You have brought him, then, from the barricade here?”

Perhaps the question was rhetorical, and Valjean at least seemed to think so, for he did not answer. Instead, he said, “He lives in the Marais, Rue des Filles du Calvaire, at his grandfather’s - I forget the name.” Crawling over to dig through Marius’ jacket, Valjean found the student's pocketbook and handed it to the Inspector.

“Gillenormand, Rue des Filles du Calvaire, number six,” Javert read aloud.

“That was it,” Valjean agreed, getting to his feet.

“Driver?” Javert called, motioning to the fiacre.

The carriage drove slowly down the quay, until Valjean was able with Javert’s assistance to hoist Marius onto the back seat. Valjean climbed into the front, and a moment later Javert joined him, murmuring the address to the driver on his box.

As the fiacre began again to move, Javert turned to Valjean. “Please,” he dryly implored. “Avoid dripping on me.”

Valjean gave him another weak smile by way of reply, too exhausted to say anything else.

The sun had entirely set when the carriage arrived in the Rue des Filles du Calvaire, stopping outside number six. As Valjean pulled Marius out once again, Javert banged smartly on the knocker. The porter was slow to answer and sleepy when he did, which made the Inspector irate, but eventually they got the point across and Marius inside the manor.

With that accomplished, the two older men returned to the fiacre, and Javert at last gave the order to go to the Rue de l’Homme-Armé. He also set his hand gingerly on Valjean’s own, not enthusiastic about the purée of filth he was getting on himself; Valjean’s answering look made it worth his while.

* * *

Walking into number seven made the day feel like a dream, but the bruises and the sewer water remained to prove otherwise.

“You need a bath,” Javert said as he took off his coat and gloves.

“I will have to find where the portess put the basin.”

“Don't you dare,” warned the Inspector. “I don't even want to guess what your afternoon consisted of, but I know you need rest. I will find a basin and get the water.”

“Javert...”

“Don't argue with me, Valjean,” Javert said quietly. “Please, just let me do this.”

Eventually Valjean nodded. Determined, the Inspector pulled a kettle from near the hearth and stepped out into the back garden to draw water up from the barrel. He went back inside to find Toussaint fretting over her employer.

“Oh, good, Monsieur l’Inspector, someone with sense,” the woman said, her exasperation evident. “Monsieur Fauchelevent is insisting I go to bed, but clearly he needs a bath made up, I have no idea what sort of nonsense he got himself into, but -”

“Calm yourself, Madame,” Javert interrupted. “Find the tub if you like, but I can take care of the rest.”

“But Monsieur -”

“I have been drawing my own baths for years, Madame, I'm sure I can manage.”

“Well!” Toussaint looked about to argue, but apparently thought better of it. Instead she turned back to Valjean and said, “Monsieur will surely at least sleep in the bedroom upstairs.”

Javert set the kettle over the fire, eavesdropping.

“But Madame,” said Valjean, “there are only two bedrooms in this house, one of which is Cosette’s. If I take the other, where shall you sleep?”

“The armchair, Monsieur, and I assure you it will be perfectly sufficient.”

“But -”

“Monsieur,” Javert intervened with a subtle wink at Toussaint, “can't you see you are offending the poor woman? It would be far more gracious to accept.”

Valjean sputtered apologies as Toussaint went upstairs to find the tub; when she returned, Javert took it, ordering Valjean to head up in her place. When he had complied - rather meekly, Javert thought - Toussaint sighed and shook her head.

“Thank you, Monsieur,” she said quietly. “I worry about him.”

“So do I.” The admission escaped his lips before he had time to stop it, and he flushed with embarrassment, but Toussaint only smiled.

“I am glad you are looking out for him.”

Javert filled the tub halfway with tepid water from the barrel before setting it next to the fire and pouring in the steaming liquid.

“Are you sure you will be alright sleeping down here?” the Inspector asked.

“Oh yes,” Toussaint replied, settling down for the night. “And it's a right sight better than where I would be sleeping without Monsieur Fauchelevent’s kindness.”

It was a thoughtful Javert who climbed the stairs with the basin balanced on his hip.

The first door on the right was ajar; Javert knocked quietly and entered the small room. The bedstead sat in the left-hand corner. Valjean stood next to it at the window above the dresser. He had located a cloth and a bar of soap, and looked unaccountably nervous. Javert set the tub down in the center of the floor and turned to leave, but behind him, Valjean cleared his throat.

“Er, Javert,” he began.

The Inspector paused. “Yes?”

“Would you -” He broke off, sounding abashed. When Javert looked back at him, Valjean gestured vaguely. He tried again. “Would you - stay?” he asked. “You do not have to,” he added hurriedly, “only - I would feel more at ease to know you were there.”

In wordless reply, the Inspector went and sat on the bed, leaning against the headboard to watch the door and give Valjean his privacy. He could hear Valjean divesting himself of his ruined clothes - which might, in Javert’s opinion, have to be burned - and then the man’s quiet sigh of relief as he stepped into the basin. 

“Thank you.”

Javert glanced at where Valjean sat in the moonlight, turned over his bare shoulder to mumble at the Inspector. Grunting his acknowledgement, Javert’s eyes flicked back forward. It was not his place to pry, even by means of a glance. Water splashed as Valjean rinsed the stench of the sewers from his skin, and then there was a sort of thud as the soap slipped out of his slick fingers and skidded across the floorboards. This was followed by a quiet, “Bother,” and then, “Erm, Javert?”

The Inspector followed Valjean’s rueful eyes to where the soap had landed near the foot of the bed. Sliding off the mattress, Javert picked up the bar and went to return it. His footfalls seemed too loud in the quiet bedroom, even as he kept his gaze carefully averted. Passing off the soap, Javert’s fingers curled around Valjean’s; he meant to return to the bed, but Valjean’s hand slid around his, holding him there gently. They stayed like that for a long moment, Valjean sitting, Javert standing, both looking away.

Then Valjean said, “My arms are too sore to reach around to my back. Do you think you could...?”

Javert felt his stomach plummet, and grew somewhat lightheaded. “Ah. Are you sure you would be comfortable with...?”

The hand on his own tightened incrementally. “I would not have asked otherwise.”

Giving a jerk of his head, Javert said, “I will do it, then.”

Valjean let his hand drop as the Inspector walked around behind him. Javert sat on the floor, rolling up his shirtsleeves, and reached around for the soap. Only then did he let his eyes drop, following the curve of Valjean’s back as it pressed against the side of the metal tub. Valjean was tan on his neck and arms from his hours working his garden, but that ended where his shirt would normally begin, and it was not hard to guess why. From the top of his shoulder blades down to past what Javert could see, the older man’s skin was covered in scars. Some of them were thin and faded; many of them were not. They were the obvious marks of the galley slave.

Javert absorbed all this in in the length of time it took to glance down, but regardless of what he said, the Inspector was quite sure Valjean was already self-conscious as it was, and Javert had no inclination to make him feel stared at. His first motions with the soap were hesitant, rubbing it in small circles across the top of Valjean’s shoulder. Valjean said nothing, but some of the tension seemed to leave his posture, and so Javert took that for encouragement.

Much of the sludge had stuck to the outside of Valjean’s clothing, but there was no small amount of it still clinging to his skin; Javert tried not to think about what might be comprising it as the soap and the cloth sloughed it off. He tried to think even less of Valjean wading through it all, deep at least to his neckline. The idea made him gag, and he could feel his respect for Valjean increasing even further. The Inspector could never have managed such a feat, and Valjean had done it while bearing Marius’ weight as well.

The first time Javert’s hand brushed over one of Valjean’s scars, he felt the man stiffen. Javert made no comment, merely continued with his task, and once more, Valjean let himself go slack. Picking up on some of the wariness which still hid beneath the surface, Javert let his fingers trail more deliberately over skin as he repeatedly lathered and wiped away suds, even while in truth much of the muck had already been washed off. It did not take Valjean long to notice.

“Ah, Javert, what are you doing?”

“You are tired,” Javert said - _lather_ \- “and sore,” - _wipe_ \- “and stressed,” - _lather_. “And I suspect that despite the necessity of it, my doing this is only aggravating the problem. So unless you are opposed, I would like to help you relax.”

“You don’t have to do that,” Valjean whispered.

“But I would like to,” the Inspector said back. “Although,” he added a moment later, “I have no idea how to go about it.”

Valjean laughed shakily as he shifted positions, sloshing the water. “I suppose that makes two of us.”

Javert was at a loss, even less practiced in giving solace than receiving it, but Valjean had done too much for him not to try. “Perhaps if I...” he murmured, a dozen ideas in his head, each of which he discarded. Finally, he set down the rag with the soap on the floor and simply pressed his palm to the ridge of Valjean’s spine. Valjean became very still, but he did not argue. Javert sat like that for a moment, unmoving, letting the warmth of his hand saturate skin cool with water.

It was instinct which led Javert to swipe his thumb across Valjean’s shoulder blade with a firm, even pressure. Valjean’s small gasp brought warmth to his chest; Javert would never have accused himself of having any skill for comfort, but the ache in Valjean’s muscles responded favorably to Javert’s ministrations. Rubbing with greater vigor, the Inspector coaxed Valjean’s back into unknotting itself, releasing the exhaustion from the sewers, the terror of the barricade, all the waiting and the jealousy, and, Javert suspected, a tightness which Valjean might have carried for years, the kind that comes with always looking over one’s shoulder, never quite sure if any given day will be one’s last.

That latter was damage which would not be undone in a single night - this, Javert knew. Even so, in that moment, he swore he would do whatever it might take to bring that man some of the happiness which he so readily bestowed on others. He found himself leaning forward, eyes shut, to press his nose and lips against the crook of Valjean’s neck. Valjean leaned back against him.

“Javert,” he sighed, so soft that it might have been a prayer.

The bathwater had by now grown cold, though the Inspector did not think that the shiver which overtook Valjean had anything to do with temperature. Still, he said, “You should get out of there, you'll catch a chill.”

“The night is warm,” Valjean replied. “I will be fine.”

Javert stood up slowly, his knees stiff from being on the floor, and went to the door to grab the towel and robe which hung on a hook from it. These he brought Valjean, and once more he found himself looking anywhere else.

Valjean seemed to notice, and he chuckled when he took the towel from Javert’s outstretched hand. “You have more modesty than I would have expected, Inspector.”

“You do not have to earn your privacy,” Javert said only, and because he was not looking, he did not see the touched expression which came over Valjean’s face.

Valjean dried himself quickly and bundled up in his robe. Thusly appareled, he padded over to the small dresser, pulling a pair of nightshirts from the top drawer. One he tossed to Javert, who he motioned to the opposite side of the room to change. Javert did, facing the corner and pulling off the remnants of his spy’s disguise. He struggled against self-consciousness himself as he drew the long nightshirt over his head, turning to find that Valjean had finished the same maneuver.

“Where were you intending to sleep?” Valjean inquired.

The Inspector paused. “I had not really considered it.”

Valjean sat on the edge of the bed, his cheeks taking on a distinctly pink hue. “Well,” he said, not meeting Javert’s eyes, “this will hold two, I think.”

Javert’s throat felt suddenly very dry. He swallowed. “Is that an invitation?”

“Would you accept it if it was?”

The Inspector was now making a concerted effort to not imagine what it might be like to lay next to Valjean. “We would be rather pressed for space.”

Tilting his head, Valjean countered, “Not if we slept on our sides.”

Javert was decidedly not breathing rapidly, nor was he picturing Valjean curled up against him. He had not intended any of this to happen, he was sure, but now that it was, he was powerless to stop it, and he could not even bring himself to want to. He made one last attempt, for propriety’s sake.

“What would Cosette think, if she saw us like that?”

Had he not known Valjean to be far too reserved for such mannerisms, Javert might have categorized the man’s smile as coy. “I only intend to sleep, Inspector. It is not a very compromising position.” When Javert fixed him with a skeptical look, Valjean amended his statement. “Well, perhaps it is, a bit. But it is a chance I am willing to take, if you are.”

It took most of what remained of the Inspector’s courage to cross the little room and stand beside the bed. Valjean’s smile was unguarded as he pulled himself over to the side of the mattress nearer the wall, leaving Javert enough room to sit down. The semantics took a minute to work themselves out, as Javert was taller but Valjean broader, but soon enough Valjean was tucking his head against the Inspector’s shoulder and slinging his arm over his waist. Javert expressed the impracticality of trying to keep their fingers laced together while sleeping, but nevertheless he took hold of Valjean’s hand.

The warm weight against his back was more soothing than Javert would ever have guessed. He was nearly asleep when he felt Valjean plant a small, chaste kiss in his hair. Surely, Javert thought, if he smiled any wider he would strain something.


	17. In which they find a way forward

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a heads-up that chapter 18 is taking me a little longer than I had hoped. If all goes well, I should still have it done by day after tomorrow, but we've been busy with a lot of family stuff. 
> 
> Once again, this is going up from my phone, so just let me know of any formatting issues.

Javert felt he must be dreaming, and so he did not open his eyes, if only to maintain the illusion of a solid body curled against him for a little longer. Then Valjean sighed next to his ear, and Javert knew himself to be awake. He blinked lazily, taking in the sight of a rosy dawn coloring the walls. As per his prediction, their two hands had become separated during the night, but Valjean’s arm still rested on the Inspector’s side, tethering them together. Valjean also seemed to have rolled onto his back, which left Javert precious little space on the mattress. A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth; if they were going to keep doing this, they would require a larger bed.

At that, his smile faltered. Were they going to keep doing this? He could not deny that there would be consequences, but he wanted - oh, did he _want_ -

He was shaken from his trance by another sigh from Valjean, this one shorter, really more of a snuffle. Javert’s eyebrows pinched closer as he heard the other man’s breathing shift from deep, even inhalations to shallower, staccato ones. Valjean whimpered softly, and Javert realized with a thrill of horror that the man was having a nightmare. What he was dreaming, Javert could not say, and that was the worst thing - there were so many bad memories, so much fear and pain in their tangled past, that the source material had to have grown quite extensive.

Valjean gave another little whine, and Javert made a decision. He turned as much as he could without falling out of bed and recaptured Valjean’s hand. Threading their fingers together, he squeezed and gently nudged the sleeping man with his shoulder. Valjean did not open his eyes immediately, but his breaths became steadier.

Eyes still closed, he mumbled, “Javert?”

“At your service,” quipped the Inspector.

“Javert,” Valjean repeated, finally looking. “You woke me?”

“Mmm.”

“Thank you.” Then, “What time is it?”

Javert finished rolling over, so that he could be close to Valjean and look at him.

“Early. Half-past six, at a guess.”

Valjean nodded. He still looked unsettled, though the Inspector was reasonably confident it was not him at fault; keeping their hands clasped, Valjean was running his thumb over Javert’s knuckle with absentminded affection.

At last, Valjean took a deep breath. “I was having a dream.” He glanced at Javert. “I think you knew that. I was... back in those endless sewers.” Valjean broke off, and Javert waited for him to continue with an uncharacteristic patience. “At the end, before the grate out to the river, there was... a pit, some sort of quagmire. I waded through it, up to my knees, and then waist, and then chin, and just when I was about to be dragged under, I found a step up to higher ground. In my dream... In my dream, I couldn't find the step.”

As privately relieved as he was to not have been a factor in this particular night terror, Javert still felt both a pang of sympathy and of fear for what Valjean had gone through.

“You are safe now,” he said, and then he leaned forward to kiss Valjean, because he could, and because he wanted to, and because he knew Valjean would kiss him back. It was softer than their exchange on the Rue Mondétour, less rushed, and Valjean’s lips were pliant as they crushed against his own. When Javert pulled back, looking at Valjean from under his eyelashes, he added, “Go back to sleep, Valjean, you are tired. I will be here to keep the dreams away.”

With a small smile, Valjean nestled back into the pillows and the Inspector's shoulder. He gave a contented hum, and within a minute, he was asleep again. Javert did not think he had ever been as blissfully happy as he was in that moment. He was almost afraid to enjoy it, lest the act of doing so should ruin it. Giving himself over to just resting, just being, without analysis or introspection, Javert too leaned into the pillows to wait.

Roughly an hour had passed before Valjean next opened his eyes. He blinked - with endearment, Javert thought - at the Inspector before sitting up.

"It will be time for breakfast soon," he said.

"Yes," Javert agreed.

"And I am sure you must be getting to work," he went on.

"Yes," said Javert again.

"But you aren't moving," Valjean finished, a little shyly.

"I will," Javert promised, slowly swinging his legs off the side of the bed so he could sit.

"More's the pity," chuckled Valjean. "You will eat with us?"

"Mmm." Javert stood and found his outfit where he had left them folded in the corner. It was the same one he had worn to the barricade. "I daresay I need to get a change of clothes," he added under his breath. "And you should go downstairs first," he said, turning his head to Valjean. "If we go down together, this will look more suspicious than it already does."

He heard Valjean snort, and wondered if he was rubbing off on the man.

"You go ahead," Valjean told him. "It will take me longer to dress."

Javert took him at his word, and not long after, he was descending the stairs to the front room of number seven, trying not to cringe at the dirt and sweat he knew to be ground into the fabric of his shirt. He was not expecting to be tackled at the foot of the staircase, and he expected even less for the tackle to become a hug from a willowy, blonde girl.

"Javert!" Cosette exclaimed, squeezing him around the middle. "You've returned! Is papa...?"

"Upstairs," Javert answered, quite taken aback.

"I was so angry with him for making us leave the Rue Plumet," Cosette admitted as she took a step back. "I didn't hardly notice how worried he was about you, when you didn't come home, but then he went out, too, and you were both gone the whole day...!" She broke off with something suspiciously like a sob.

"It's alright," said Javert, patting her on the shoulder. "I am perfectly fine, and so is your father. I -"

"Papa!" Cosette rushed up the stairs to meet Valjean halfway, catching him in just as sudden of a hug. Valjean put his arms around her as well, and Javert reflected, not for the first time, on how close they were. It was no wonder that Valjean was so vehemently opposed to Pontmercy's interjection into the girl's life.

By the time the little reunion was concluded, Toussaint had put breakfast on the table and demanded everyone sit down to eat.

“Cosette,” Valjean began once all were situated, setting his fork on his napkin, “I should tell you that I... I heard about your Marius.” The girl blushed and opened her mouth to respond, but Valjean continued. “I went to the Gillenormand’s last night; it seems their grandson is home, but grievously injured.”

Cosette’s blush turned into a look of terror. “Oh, papa!” she cried. “It cannot be! It must not be!”

Valjean nodded regretfully. “It seems he fought at the barricades. He was lucky to make it out alive.”

“Can we visit him? Please?” the girl begged, breakfast forgotten.

“Of course,” replied Valjean. Javert was somewhat surprised by the man’s willingness, although a second later he couldn't imagine why he was. It wasn't as if Valjean had ever denied Cosette anything. “Eat, first. No doubt he is resting, and there is no harm to paying a visit on a full stomach.”

Cosette turned the full force of her inquiring gaze to the Inspector. “Did you see him during the fighting, Javert? Was he badly hurt?”

“We spoke,” Javert replied shortly. “He is certainly besotted with you.”

It was not exactly an answer to her question, but Cosette was entirely absorbed by this news, and her expression as she ate volleyed rapidly between terrible concern and rapture.

Then Javert had to go, so as to report back to Gisquet. Valjean came up behind him as he was putting on his coat, just as Javert knew he would, and adjusting his cravat, the Inspector turned to him.

"Were you about to invite me back tonight?"

Valjean flushed. "I was going to see if you were willing, yes."

The Inspector's mouth lifted. "I really should return to my apartment," he replied. "My landlady probably thinks me deceased, and if I have to wear these clothes one more day in a row, I will be."

Valjean appeared crestfallen, but he nodded. "Perfectly understandable."

"But..." Javert paused, licking his lips. "If you wished to visit, I would not be adverse." He withdrew a slip of paper from his pocket and held it out. "My address."

Valjean took it automatically, staring at him. The blush returned to his cheeks, pinker than before.

"Dinner?" suggested the Inspector as Valjean continued to gape. "It will not be extravagant, but I can cook."

Finding his voice, Valjean stammered, "Y-yes, absolutely.”

"Marvelous," Javert purred, wondering by this time exactly how red Valjean was capable of turning. "Shall we say seven?"

Mutely, Valjean nodded his agreement. Stepping out the door, Javert's face was fixed in a smirk that lasted all the way to the police station.

* * *

It did not take long for the Inspector's position to wipe the amused expression from his face. No sooner had he arrived than Gisquet sought him out.

"Inspector, a word if you please," said the Prefect.

"Monsieur," Javert replied, standing up from his desk.

"How important is the paperwork you are going over?"

Javert flipped through the stack of parchment. "It is mostly reports from the gendarmes you sent into the sewers regarding their findings."

Gisquet nodded. "Well, then, give them to Guimard to read instead. I need you to go back to the Rue de la Chanvrerie. General Bugeaud is requesting assistance in identifying bodies."

"Of the national guard? I knew few of them."

"The General can identify his own men. It is the revolutionaries who remain a question."

"As you say," Javert agreed deferentially. "I will go as soon as I give these to Guimard."

"Good," came the reply. "Take as long as you require."

"Yes, Monsieur."

When the Prefect had left, Javert let out a long, slow sigh. He would of course do as his superior asked, but he would find no satisfaction in it. Any pleasure he might once have taken in playing the spy had been leeched from him. He wondered vaguely if that were Valjean’s fault, and decided it did not matter.

The resolution he reached was swift and unexpected, but once his mind was made up, the Inspector knew it could be his only way forward. Bending over his desk, Javert brisky wrote out a few lines of text onto a piece of parchment. Signing it, he folded the sheet and tucked it into his pocket. It was his first desire to give it to the Prefect at the earliest opportunity, but prudence made him reconsider. Better, he thought, to discuss it with Valjean first and ensure he was not overstepping in presumption.

Touching the edge of the paper like a talisman, Javert went out into the street and found a fiacre to carry him to the Rue de la Chanvrerie. The sights were familiar as the carriage passed houses and shops, ones the Inspector knew as well as the skin stretched over his hand. The familiarity did nothing to quell the thrill that went through him, knowing what he did of what had happened here.

The fiacre stopped at the end of the Rue Saint-Denis, where the national guard had gathered to fire upon the barricade. A few casualties remained on the stone cobbles; Javert was certain there would be more the farther down the long street he went. The General was standing with a few of his soldiers. He looked up when Javert disembarked, waving him over.

“Inspector Javert,” the General nodded, introducing him to the others. “Your reputation precedes you, Monsieur.”

“General,” Javert murmured, bowing. “How may I be of assistance?”

General Bugeaud, a large, barrel-chested man, pointed down the road toward the Rue de la Chanvrerie. “The insurgents did half the job for us - they laid their dead out near the Rue Mondétour. I just need you to give us the names of any of them you can. Additional identifying information would be appreciated if you have it.”

“You will get a full report,” the Inspector promised.

“Couillard will accompany you,” said Bugeaud, gesturing at the shorter lad at his side. “He will take notes for later reference.”

Javert inclined his head at the soldier, who looked thoroughly alarmed at having been singled out for such an important task. Taking a measure of pity on him, Javert bowed once more to General Bugeaud and flicked his fingers to indicate Couillard should follow. The soldier said nothing until they were well out of earshot, and then he looked from the bodies in the street to the Inspector with unadulterated awe.

“Is it true what they're saying? That you were a hostage of the barricade?”

Javert nodded, less than eager to discuss it.

“How did you escape?”

Javert fixed Couillard with a half-hearted glare. It was still enough to startle him into silence.

“I was set free,” Javert replied.

This revelation did nothing to lessen the wary hero-worship the young man seemed prepared to heap on the Inspector, but thankfully, Couillard seemed to realize it would be to his benefit to ask nothing more.

The Rue Saint-Denis turned into the Rue de la Chanvrerie, and Javert stopped in front of the massive, crumbling pile which had been the barricade. Parts of it had been carted away, but it would be many hours still before the street was cleared of its monstrosity. Steeling himself, Javert beckoned again to Couillard, and skirted the perimeter of the debris to where the insurgents had left a narrow pass-through. Entering into the plaza of the Corinth through it, stepping carefully around shattered glass and cartridges scattered like sand, the Inspector found himself in a scene out of a nightmare, if not Valjean’s, then perhaps his own on some future starless night.

The Corinth was ransacked. There did not appear to be a single window pane left whole in the place. And the cul-de-sac... It took all of Javert’s concentration not to allow a reaction to pass over his face. The porous pavers were streaked with a rust-colored stain that would not wash away entirely for months. To his right, he could make out the smaller barrier in front of the Rue Mondétour, and the line of the dead in front of it.

A scrap of an old superstition floated through Javert’s thoughts, and he held his breath as he walked deliberately to do his duty, mindful of those who had no breath left of their own. Stopping in front of the nearest cadaver, Javert narrowed his eyes. Who had lined them up so neatly, if the General said they had been that way when the national guard had broken in? It had to have been someone among the living, and the only person to walk out of the barricade besides himself had been -

Javert let out his withheld breath in a long exhalation. This small mark of respect had Valjean’s work written all over it. Aware that Couillard was waiting with pen and parchment for him to begin, Javert rallied his courage and looked down into the dead eyes waiting for him. Impartial judgement deserted him.

“Surname Courfeyrac.” It was the Inspector speaking, even as Javert retreated into himself, wishing to feel anything other than overpowering self-condemnation, while simultaneously knowing that what he saw would haunt him for the rest of his life. “Law student,” the Inspector continued. “Third in command, under Combeferre and Enjolras.”

Couillard copied this down quickly, hoping to make a favorable impression. He looked up with attention when he finished, and Javert side-stepped to the next body.

“Surname Feuilly. Son of and apprentice to a fan-maker.”

They continued in this fashion for some time, and the Inspector tripped over a name only once.

“First name Ga - Gavroche,” said Javert. He paused as he reasserted his control. It seemed the boy had returned to the fight, even after Marius had sent him away with his letter. “A gamin. Collateral damage.”

“Monsieur l’Inspector?” It was the first time Couillard had interrupted him.

Javert glowered at him. “Are you questioning my report, officer?”

“No, Monsieur,” Couillard said hastily. He diligently wrote as the Inspector had reported, and Javert sighed to himself. It was a lie on his part, but the child, at least, deserved a proper burial, even if it was in a poor grave provided by the state.

He identified another dozen bodies before they were finished. The Inspector frowned.

“Are there more elsewhere?” he asked. “There should be a blond.”

Couillard pondered this. “There are two upstairs,” he said, nodding toward the Corinth. “One of them was blond.”

Javert nodded. “That one will be Enjolras.”

“And the other?”

The Inspector stopped, examining his memory carefully. “There was a drunk,” he recalled. “Dark haired. I never heard a name - he was passed out.”

Couillard shrugged. “You’ve given us far more than we hoped for. The other spies who survived had much less to say on the matter.”

The look the Inspector gave him was feral. “Fortunately, I am not like most of my other officers.” It was unclear whether this was meant to mean Couillard was fortunate to have so much information or if he was fortunate to only have one Javert to endure.

His business concluded, the Inspector let Couillard leave with his report. Then he was, if not alone, for others were seeing to their own assignments elsewhere around the war-torn plaza, at least unattended. He surveyed the lineup one more time, his stomach rolling. The stench of death was appalling, and there was not one among them who was unstained with blood. Javert closed his eyes, the only weakness he could allow himself, and his hand drifted back to the paper in his pocket. Now more than ever, he was sure it was the right choice.

It was as he was preparing to leave that Javert noticed the man sitting on the street, leaning against the wall of a bookseller’s. He might have taken this for tiredness and passed the uniformed gendarme by had not the man’s face been twisted in a grimace of discomfort.

“Monsieur?” Javert inquired, stepping closer. The man raised his head, and Javert let out a hiss. “Beaulieu? Is that you?”

“Inspector?” Beaulieu’s voice was tired and ragged; as he approached, Javert could see the man was clutching his right shoulder. There was blood on his fingers.

“You are hurt,” said Javert, kneeling next to the young officer.

Beaulieu nodded once. “I was in the sewers,” he explained. “Came around the corner ahead of a few others on the force and got shot.”

Javert swore, which was unprecedented enough for Beaulieu to look amused through his pain.

“We will get you to the hospital,” Javert promised. “And when you are well, you can make your report on which wildly incompetent officers left you to fend for yourself.”

Beaulieu’s grimace returned. “Well,” he panted, “I would, only they're dead, see? Whoever attacked us must have thought they'd killed me, too, or I'm sure they would have finished the job.”

“You didn't see who it was?”

The officer shook his head. “Too dark.”

“Wait here,” said the Inspector, a cautionary note in his voice. “I will find a fiacre.”

Barking orders, it did not take Javert long to get a carriage to the Rue de la Chanvrerie, but it did take the work of several men to maneuver a stretcher around the barricade to where Beaulieu had dragged his way out of the sewer. When the officer had been loaded into the back seat and his fare paid to include admittance to the hospital, Javert found himself able to breathe once more. The fiacre rolled slowly away, and Beaulieu gave him the flicker of a wave through the window.

Then the Inspector turned and walked away, looking as straight and proud as he ever had. It had never been more of a façade than it was in that moment. At the end of the street, he tipped his hat respectfully to the General, who was reading Couillard’s parchment with an expression of approval. Bugeaud acknowledged him in turn, and the Inspector left the Rue Saint-Denis entirely. He made sure he was well-ensconced in an abandoned alley before he let his mask fall for the final time. Bending over the gutter, Javert retched until he felt weak-kneed and empty.

When he stood, he found he felt different - not better, precisely, but different, as though something in him which had been unmoored, drifting aimlessly within him in the weeks following his captivity in and subsequent release from the Rue Plumet, had finally found a place to weigh anchor. He was drained, and he knew it would be some time before he could close his eyes without imagining dead ones staring back at him, but at long last, Javert’s feet had found a path they could tread without regret.

Javert gave a final, hacking cough and spat. Changing direction, he made for the marketplace. He had promised Valjean dinner, after which they would talk, and he would need some time to put what he had to say in order. Before he could do that, however, he required groceries.

* * *

Javert let himself into his apartment with a small, tired groan. He collapsed into a hard hickory chair next to his round dining table; a grocer’s bag slipped through his fingers and landed on the floor with a soft thump. Rubbing his temples, he noticed that his hair was again escaping its boundaries. Resigned, Javert undid his ribbon - putting his appearance back together was as good a place to begin as any. 

Leaving the groceries to fend for themselves on the floor, he hauled himself back up, stretching to shake the tiredness which had rooted itself in his bones. It took him a minute to find a clean towel. Luckily, his landlady knew what he paid her for, and she had left his wash basin full of cool water. Dipping the corner of the towel in it, Javert began the slow process of wiping the grime from his face before turning his attention to his clothes, which he decided he would be happier never looking at again. The shirt went, and then the trousers, and Javert pawed through his drawers looking for something - anything - which would look respectable without resembling his uniform.

Unfortunately for this endeavor, Javert had spent the last several decades of his life wearing very little which was not a uniform of some persuasion, and so he finally had to settle for a pair of black slacks and a white button-down. Changing into something clean was miraculous, and feeling ever so slightly daring, Javert decided to forgo a cravat entirely and left the top button on his shirt undone. He checked the mirror - was it too immodest? He almost thought so, but then, he had spent the night before in Valjean’s bed, and the other man looked so delightful when he blushed, that Javert decided a little immodesty might be fitting.

As he did up the cuffs of the shirt, he examined the bruises the barricade had given him. They had faded from purple to brown, going yellow at the edges. The skin was tender to the touch, but it was healing. The only thing to attend to after that was his hair, which necessitated several vigorous passes with the comb before the knots and little mats worked themselves out. Javert resecured his hair ribbon and a faint smile tugged at his mouth. Putting away the soiled clothing, he removed the document of that morning from the dirty pants pocket and left it on the table.

Cooking was an activity Javert engaged in rarely. He never entertained. It came as something of a surprise to him, therefore, to discover that he minded cooking for a guest less than he minded cooking for himself. For himself, it was nothing more than a chore to be accomplished. For Valjean, it felt like a gift. He was aware that, in inviting him to his home, Valjean had never meant Javert to feel indebted to him, but still, it was nice to be able to offer his own hospitality for a change. He seared pork and vegetables, and a bottle of wine sat on the tabletop.

As the food simmered over the little stove, Javert rehearsed a dozen conversations, trying to account for any objection of Valjean’s, but he found himself stuck. The man had a frustrating habit of surprising Javert, and he had the sneaking suspicion that this conversation would be no different.

Javert’s watch approached the dinner hour faster than he would have liked - somehow, preparing his own, simple meals had never taken so much time - and before he knew it, there came a gentle, familiar rap from the far side of the room. Trust Valjean to be exactly on time. Taking a deep breath, Javert opened the door.

Valjean stood in the hallway, a look of nervousness giving way to a wide grin. He, too, had changed, and Javert startled to find a flush rising up his neck at Valjean’s sleek black dinner jacket over a matching waistcoat. Briefly, he felt underdressed, until he took in the pink in Valjean’s face and decided that each of them was quite satisfied with the other’s choice of outfit.

Wordlessly, Javert held the door for Valjean to enter, taking note of a small lemon cake the man carried.

“For dessert,” Valjean explained, handing him the dish.

“You didn't need to,” Javert protested.

“It's traditional to bring something when one visits,” said Valjean, insisting.

Javert thought suddenly of all the nights Valjean had invited him to dinner and he, in his rudeness, had brought no such offering. Valjean, apparently reading his thoughts, gave him a smaller, knowing smile.

“The first time you came to my house, you were unconscious. I think we can forgive you that minor breach of social etiquette.”

Javert chuckled. “Well,” he said only. He glanced around at his small chambers. “It's not much, I'm afraid,” he said of it apologetically, “but there is food, and it is hot.”

“It smells wonderful.” Valjean looked a bit bashful about something; Javert discovered what it was a minute later when the shorter man leaned up to press a kiss on Javert’s cheek.

Javert felt his face heat, and he brushed his fingers across the place where he could still feel the ghost of Valjean’s lips. He was not sure what Valjean must be reading in his face, but Valjean was beaming, so it couldn't have been bad, even if he was too surprised to smile. Hitherto, it had largely been Javert who had instigated these little moments of intimacy. For Valjean to do so, to demonstrate that he wanted what he offered as much as Javert did, was arresting.

Blinking to bring himself back into the present, Javert waved a hand at the table.

“Dinner,” he said, his voice rougher than usual.

Valjean took a seat, and his expression was one of such contentment that Javert nearly faltered under it, unused to being the source of another person’s happiness. He served the meal quickly, before he turned clumsy and spilled something, and then settled into his own chair. Valjean made a soft noise of enjoyment as he ate, and Javert released a breath he didn't know he had been holding. Reassured that the evening would not be a disaster, Javert poured them each some wine and turned to his own portion.

Valjean’s cake (made with a bit of help from Cosette) was a fine conclusion to the end of a good meal, and the two men found themselves in one another’s company without distractions. Valjean had eyed Javert’s folded paper when they sat down but had said nothing of it. Now Javert picked it up and handed it to him.

“Read it, and tell me what you think,” he said, his features turning into something that would have looked playful if Javert had ever in his entire life been playful. Instead, it only gave him a more lupine cast than usual, but Valjean opened the document without comment. He only got through the first line when he looked up in surprise.

“Go on,” insisted Javert, flicking his fingers towards the paper.

Obediently, Valjean finished reading, his eyes growing wider by the second.

“You really mean to do it, don't you?” he asked. “I thought at first I had misunderstood, but I didn't.”

“You didn't,” Javert confirmed. “I planned on giving that to Gisquet tomorrow morning.”

“But, Javert...” Valjean looked at him with shock. “If you resign...”

Javert shook his head. “Not if. When.”

“Your position -!”

“- Can be taken on by somebody younger and better equipped to handle constant threat to life and limb,” finished Javert calmly.

Valjean frowned. “What will you do with your time?”

Javert proceeded carefully. This was the part he was unsure of, not because he himself had qualms, but because Valjean might. “I was thinking,” he began, “that I might like to learn to garden. Of course, I would need a teacher.”

Opening his mouth, Valjean no doubt meant to offer suggestions or arguments when something in his face changed and he quieted.

“You mean me,” he said with dawning comprehension. “You'd like me to teach you to garden.”

“I can think of no one better suited to the task,” Javert replied quietly. “But only if the idea is agreeable to you.”

Valjean let out a soft laugh. “‘Agreeable,’ he says. Like that's even a question.”

“You can say no,” Javert told him seriously. “One way or another, I intend to resign, but you are under no obligation to put up with me.”

“Javert...” Valjean reached across the table to take one of Javert’s hands in his own. “It would be my privilege.”

In that simple clasp of hands, Javert found himself anchored.

“Good, then,” he smiled, and that was all that needed to be said about that.


	18. In which the bells ring out

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more chapter to write! (Me to myself: Finish strong, finish strong...) I'll try not to keep you guys waiting too long.

It took six months for Marius to be entirely recovered from his night defending the barricades, six months which were characterized by a long series of unusual contradictions. It began when Gisquet accepted Javert’s resignation, exhibiting more stoicism than Javert had anticipated.

“Well, I suppose this day had to come sooner or later,” the Prefect had said, right before giving him a strange, piercing look. Apparently the Inspector passed whatever standard Gisquet meant to hold him to; the Prefect signed off on the Inspector’s paperwork, and then he was only Javert.

It was disturbing, like he had ripped away a piece of his own identity, and for a moment, he was afraid he had done the wrong thing. When Valjean met him outside the station house, the warm hand that gently squeezed his own allayed his fears. Valjean waiting for him at the station - that was strange enough on its own.

The weeks that followed required a great deal of adjustment. By turns, Javert was content, frustrated, or restless; it was nothing so bad when Valjean was home, but more often than not, he and Cosette were at the Gillenormands’, Cosette watching Marius, and Valjean watching Cosette. This left Javert stuck in number seven, where he paced back and forth like a caged tiger. Valjean invited him along to the Rue des Filles du Calvaire, but Javert always refused. Valjean had adamantly insisted that Cosette know nothing about her father’s role in the June Rebellion, and Javert alleged that there was a chance one of the porters might recognize him as the Inspector who returned the young baron home.

In actuality, Javert knew that that chance was a small one; the night of June 6th had been dark, the porters bleary-eyed, and when at last their attention had been roused, it was all for the boy, not for him. Still, Javert was eternally hesitant about appearing in public with Valjean, lest somebody should read too closely into a glance or a smile and deduce what the two men were to each other. Better for Valjean and for his love-struck daughter that there be no gossip which might detract from a relationship with Pontmercy. Javert’s misgivings aside (ones which he was reasonably sure Valjean also shared), the match was socially promising, and Cosette grew more joyful by the day as it was clearer and clearer that her beloved would recover. Having come to start thinking of her as a sort of niece, Javert was no less determined to protect her happiness than he was Valjean’s.

That was the other juxtaposition Javert could not seem to reconcile: he was aware that Valjean still had reservations about his daughter marrying, and yet the moods Javert caught him in sometimes were surely too black to be caused only by his fear of an empty nest. In those moments, sitting next to the fire at night, Valjean’s face turned despairing whenever he thought Javert was not looking. At first, Javert had taken to tapping his shoulder, asking what was wrong, and always Valjean would shake his head, smile tightly, and say that it was nothing. Now, Javert just watched. He had spent his whole life investigating, and he was prepared to do a little more if he could find a way to bring a real smile back to Valjean’s lips.

Approximately one week after the doctor pronounced Marius healed, Javert came down the stairs to find Valjean sitting alone at the breakfast table, nursing a mug of tea.

“Good morning,” he said when Valjean did not look up.

Valjean hummed a response but still did not speak. Javert fixed himself a plate of toast and sat down to frown at the man who was studiously avoiding his gaze.

“Something you want to say?” Javert asked, at which Valjean sighed.

“Cosette went out,” said Valjean. He took another small sip of tea. Javert pursed his lips, not sure what exactly this had to do with anything, until Valjean continued. “Toussaint took her shopping. She has to get her dress... for... for the wedding.”

Ah. Javert’s eyebrows lifted of their own accord at this news.

Valjean rested his head in his hand, staring into the dregs of his mug. “Monsieur Gillenormand is to meet them at the shop. He offered to buy the dress as... as a wedding gift, along with some other personal effects.”

“And you were not invited?” Javert could guess the answer to this question, but perhaps if Valjean had to confirm his suspicion, it would force the man to see he was being ridiculous.

“No,” Valjean replied, turning his head to look at him. “Cosette invited me. But... I can't keep imposing myself on her. Once she’s married...”

“She’ll have just as much need of you,” Javert told him firmly. “You're her father!”

“Not really.” Valjean’s voice was small and sad.

“You are in the only way that counts,” argued Javert. “This is foolishness.”

“But, Javert, look at me,” Valjean sighed. “You know what I am - if that reality ever came to light, it would ruin her right along with me.”

Javert snorted. “I am the only one who knows. Existing records still report you dead after diving off the Orion. Nobody is going to come looking for you.”

“Thénardier,” countered Valjean.

“And what is he going to do about it?” Javert growled. Six months later, the con artist was still evading capture, a fact which was nearly enough to make Javert wish he had waited longer to resign. “I'd string up that bit of scum as soon as look at him, and he knows it. He won't try anything.”

Valjean shook his head pensively. “Thénardier's too good at what he does for that, Javert. He could blackmail you, too.”

“Like hell.”

Javert reached under the table to rest a hand on Valjean’s thigh. Valjean’s mouth lifted slightly at that, but he could be persuaded to say no more on the subject. For his part, Javert allowed the rest of the morning to pass in silence. The conversation was over, but the argument would continue.

That afternoon, Javert went out to work in the garden with Valjean. The house on the Rue de l’Homme-Armé did not have the same expansive grounds as the place on the Rue Plumet, but it did have a boxy yard, mostly comprised of grass and some thorny rose bushes. Valjean was teaching him the proper way to prune these, how to coax them into producing more foliage and more flowers.

A lazy bumblebee drifted by when Valjean, kneeling in the dirt, looked up.

“They've set a date,” he said. It was the most he'd spoken in hours, outside of little noises of encouragement he'd given Javert, who was working a bush with a pair of shears.

Javert set down the tool. “Oh?” he asked, leaning back on his haunches.

“Just after New Year’s.”

Nodding slowly, Javert said, “An auspicious start to a marriage.” It was meaningless nonsense, some folklore he had picked up in his boyhood about times for new beginnings, but he also knew Valjean tended to be more expansive if he wasn't being pressed for information.

Valjean looked down at his hands. “You've been invited.”

“Me?” This notion startled Javert from his attempt to wheedle out whatever was causing Valjean such grief.

“I expect us to receive the formal invitations by the week’s end.”

“But...” Javert blinked rapidly. “Why? I mean, I couldn't possibly -”

“Cosette told me herself she hoped you would come.” Valjean met his eyes, the faintest twinkle of mischief glittering in his own. “You wouldn't disappoint her, would you?”

“I...” Dazedly, Javert shook his head. “I have nothing to wear,” he muttered, and turned back to gardening.

Beside him, Valjean chuckled. It was the first time in weeks he could remember him doing so, and the sound eased a modicum of Javert’s worry.

“Perhaps we shall have to go shopping ourselves,” Valjean suggested while he helped Javert adjust his grip on the shears.

“Oh joy,” came the withering response.

* * *

They did indeed make a trip to the tailor’s in the week that followed. Javert chose a fine navy blue dress coat with the accouterments to match. Valjean refused to share his choice, a fact which was almost as interesting as the way the tips of his ears reddened when he said so.

It seemed now that every day brought with it more wedding preparations. Many of them, Javert was tempted to talk his way out of, but a sort of mania had gripped Valjean as he flung himself heart and soul into his daughter’s special day, and Javert was disinclined to believe this meant the darkness of his thoughts had dissipated, merely that it had changed forms. As a result, Javert allowed himself to be roped into discussions of menu, music, and floral arrangements, most of which bored him to tears, but it did let him keep a hawk's eye on Valjean.

There was also the matter of a gift. Although Javert was aware it was traditional, or not even just traditional but expected, of the few weddings duty had ever compelled him to attend at his superiors' invitation, something practical had always sufficed, be it a fine new pen or notebook. For Cosette, however, Javert knew he had to do better. He could not give Valjean's daughter anything so commonplace as that. What, though, to get the girl? Everything she could want, it seemed, her father or her fiancé supplied, and if not them, then her soon-to-be grandfather-in-law.

It was two nights before the event that he was finally struck by the solution. With the bulk of the preparations completed, Valjean had become troublingly quiet again, taking to sitting and staring into the fire, but if Javert was going to manage what he had in mind in time, then that was a problem which was simply going to have to wait. He found some excuse to go out for a bit; Valjean merely nodded when Javert gave it to him, no more than glancing in his direction.

Then Javert found his way to a jeweler's. It took him some effort to get his hands on precisely what he wanted, and the poor shopkeeper grew more and more flustered as Javert turned down two dozen pieces, but at last a soft exclamation escaped his lips as he held the sweating jeweler's last necklace up to the light. The gold chain was delicate, the size and ornamentation of the pendant perfect.

"This," said Javert. "This exactly."

"Very good, Monsieur," replied the relieved shopkeeper. "You have a discerning eye."

Smuggling his purchase into the Rue de l'Homme-Armé was no trick whatsoever - Valjean did not appear to have moved since he'd left. The sight gave Javert pause. Walking up behind the armchair, he pressed a soft kiss to the crown of Valjean's head. That did make Valjean look up, though Javert could not read the expression on his face.

"I have to go out," the man murmured. "I have... something I must still discuss with Marius."

"I will be waiting," Javert promised.

"I know,” Valjean smiled softly.

Javert watched him leave, a feeling of helplessness twisting in his gut. He could not fix whatever was distressing Valjean so, not when he didn't know what it was. Perhaps Marius would have some idea. Much as it stung to think Valjean might trust someone other than himself with a secret, Javert could not begrudge the man that. There was too many years between them to expect Valjean should confide in him at all, and he was fortunate for what he got.

Sighing, Javert climbed the stairs to the bedroom. He removed and took with him some pieces of charcoal from the fireplace, and some parchment from a desk drawer. Sitting down on the creaking bed, he started to sketch. His hand was rough and unpracticed - it was a hobby he tended to have little time or inspiration for - and he remained unconvinced that the effort was even worth it. Perhaps, he thought critically, he was doing a disservice to the quality of the little trinket wrapped in the pocket of his coat with his shoddy draftsmanship.

At last he was, if not satisfied, then at least prepared to concede to the limits of his skill. He tucked both the parchment and the chain away where they would be safe for the night and lay down in bed. Even if Valjean was too shy to ask him to move in formally, and Javert would not dare impose, the fact remained that Javert was spending an increasing number of nights in number seven rather than his own apartment. His eyes closed, but he came to attention when the door creaked open.

There was a shuffling, and then a strong arm wrapped around his chest.

"You didn't undress," Valjean commented as he snuggled closer.

"Couldn't be bothered," Javert answered, his lips barely moving. "Finding my nightshirt would be a hassle."

Valjean laughed quietly, his breath soft against the back of Javert's neck.

"How did your talk with Marius go?" Javert asked.

At that, Valjean stilled.

"As I expected," he replied evasively.

"Humph." Javert's eyes were shut, but still they narrowed. "Why do I get the feeling this wasn't the usual bout of parental shovel talk?"

"It was nothing, Javert."

Valjean did not take long to fall asleep, but Javert lay awake for some time. Valjean had never been very good at lying to him. What would it take, he wondered, for him to share whatever was so clearly bothering him?

* * *

The day of the wedding was cold and clear. The young couple could not have asked for finer weather in January, Javert reflected as he stood in the courtyard of the church. A thin veil of frost covered trees and bushes in silver lace, and a powder of fresh snowfall deadened approaching footfalls.

Valjean had requested a moment to pray in the garden, sitting on what must have been a freezing stone bench, and his breath curled away from him in white plumes as he mouthed silently to himself. Now he stood and smiled, tilting his head toward the door. Together, they returned to the interior, which was at least moderately warmer.

The choir's practice rooms had been converted into makeshift dressing stations for the event. Cosette was elsewhere, presumably with a small host of attendants to fit her into her gown, and Marius, Valjean told Javert, had already put on his suit.

Javert ducked into the nearest room, which had been outfitted with a mirror and a stool. It was too cold in the small, stone chamber for dawdling, and so he stepped quickly into the proper trousers. Over his white shirt he fastened a black silk waistcoat, which was followed by his dress coat. The navy garment fit snugly against his hips in front, and fell into long tails in the back. Black silk lapels accented the tailor's design, and a black cravat completed the ensemble.

Javert took his gift to the bride in hand, wrapped in a small box. He tucked his gloves into the inner pocket of his coat, and rested his palm on the knob. There was no soothing his stomach, which was overcome by a sudden nausea, but he closed his eyes for a moment anyway before pushing his way into the hall.

Valjean joined him not long after, backing out of the other practice room, and Javert arched his eyebrows. He could see now why Valjean had wanted to keep his choice of outfit a secret; the man had gone with a chocolate brown suit, which while not unbecoming was decidedly unorthodox. Javert was torn between mentally despairing of Valjean’s taste and appreciating how it accentuated the tan of his complexion when Valjean turned to look at him, anxiously awaiting Javert’s assessment. Javert was stopped short: the lapels of Valjean’s dress coat were navy blue.

“Did you try to... match... my suit?” he asked haltingly, a tangled knot of emotion catching in his throat.

A beet-colored flush washed over Valjean’s cheekbones. “I saw it in the shop, and I thought - well, maybe it was silly of me, but -”

Javert reached out to take Valjean’s hand, and the man stopped talking immediately. They were in public, and in a church no less, or else Javert would have pressed his mouth to Valjean’s until all the self-reproach left the man’s voice, until he was breathless instead of second-guessing the sort of gesture that made Javert feel like he was part of something, part of a family. He settled for rubbing his thumb across the curve of Valjean’s pulse point and giving him the crooked smile he reserved for when he hadn't the words to convey his thoughts.

“Your daughter will be waiting for you,” Javert murmured.

They walked, not hand in hand, but with shoulders brushing, until they found the small bride’s room down the hall from the main chapel. Knocking gently as was his wont, Valjean opened the door to where Cosette was practically floating in her excitement, outfitted in what Javert had to concede was one of the finest gowns he had ever seen.

The fabric was an ivory-gold silk, and in the candlelight, the slightest shift of position caused it to ripple with luster. The bodice was corseted, the sleeves puffed out over Cosette’s narrow shoulders, and the skirt flared around her hips. Delicate floral embroidery in the same color but of higher sheen traced every curve and drape, and on top of it all, she wore a matching stole that fastened at the hollow of her neck.

“Papa!” she exclaimed. “Isn't it a marvel?” Cosette turned, and her skirts danced.

“You look like an angel,” Valjean agreed, going to where he could kiss her on the brow.

Cosette looked up again, her blue eyes sparkling, and this time they landed on Javert.

“You came,” said Cosette, and there was such a disbelieving pleasedness in her voice that Javert could not help but look away.

“Mademoiselle would have never let me forget it had I refused.” Sheepish, Javert made himself turn back towards her. “You are radiant; I have a present to give you, but it is a trifling thing. It might just be better if I -”

Cosette padded across the floor to him. “Your presence is already a present,” she told him. “Anything else you might give me would only compound my happiness.”

Before he could let himself become a coward and bolt, Javert gave the little wooden box over to Cosette’s grasp. She undid the clasp eagerly, lifting open the lid to reveal a petite gold locket on a chain of the same type. The face of the locket was engraved with a posy of daisies.

“Oh!” Cosette gasped. “Monsieur! It is gorgeous!”

“You had a daisy in your hair the first time we met,” Javert explained, rambling nervously. “It is absurdly sentimental, I should have just - oh no...”

Cosette was undoing the fastener of the locket and Javert cringed, but Cosette’s expression of delight only grew when she peeked inside.

“Papa, look,” she beckoned, and Javert could feel his face burning.

“Please,” he said, “don't -”

But the open locket lay flat on Cosette’s palm, revealing to Valjean and anyone else who might chance to look a pair of charcoal sketches, one in each half of the little gold pendant. They were of an amateur quality, and yet still illustrated recognizably one, the face of Marius, and two, the face of Valjean.

“They're only placeholders,” Javert went on desperately. “I was thinking you could have miniatures painted -”

“It's perfect!” Cosette declared, and she threw her arms around a very startled and chagrined Javert. “Thank you, Monsieur.”

Over her shoulder, the look of amazement Valjean was giving him would have been pleasant to bask in had not he felt it so wholly undeserved.

“I did not know you could draw,” Valjean said.

“I can't,” came the short response. “Clearly.”

“Would you put it on me?” Cosette asked, handing Javert the locket.

Hesitantly, Javert stepped behind her and folded the one half of the clasp over the other so that it clicked securely in place. The locket hung down just far enough to rest on the girl’s sternum, near her heart.

Valjean applauded softly.

“I also have a gift,” he said, “though I fear the thoughtfulness of this one rather outshines it.”

“Truly, papa,” Cosette replied, “you did not need to give me anything.”

“Ah, but there is the matter of your dowry,” Valjean told her, a smile beginning to spread on his face. “I have already discussed the matter with Marius. You shall have six hundred thousand francs to your name, my dear.”

Javert felt his jaw drop, and Cosette appeared similarly staggered.

“Six hundred -” Cosette gasped. “Six hundred _thousand_ \- Papa, I cannot believe it! Can it be true?”

“It is,” Javert assured her as he worked it out for himself. “My God, man, exactly how much did you make while you were in -”

“Don't you think it will be starting soon?” Valjean cut in, and Javert bit his lip as he realized how close he had come to accidentally divulging more of Valjean’s past than perhaps he cared for his daughter to know.

“Yes,” Cosette was replying, still short of breath. “You can hear the organ playing.”

“I should take my seat,” said Javert. He faced Cosette. “Mademoiselle Fauchelevent, when we see each other next, you shall be the baroness Pontmercy.”

He gave Valjean a smile which he hoped would inspire some confidence and then went to leave. He was almost out the door when, remembering himself, he looked over his shoulder and added, “Congratulations.”

* * *

The ceremony was beautiful. Marius walked with his aunt down the aisle, and Cosette took Valjean’s arm. Those in attendance, of which there were plenty of Gillenormand’s noble friends but less in the way of those close to the bride or groom, oohed and ahed over Cosette’s apparel - Toussaint was quite beside herself - but Javert’s eyes kept straying to the white-haired man at her side who was smiling as if his life depended on it, and who was also intermittently crying.

Afterward, the congregation retired to a separate hall for the vin d’honneur. Javert sought to disappear as quickly as possible, uncomfortable around so many people. He edged into the corner behind the tables of finger food where he could watch those coming and going without having to speak to them. A flute of champagne in his hand gave him a second convenient excuse to avoid conversation. Nevertheless, Valjean seemed to find him with little trouble not long after the festivities began.

“They will be occupied for some time,” Valjean said as he leaned against the wall next to Javert. Across the room, the newlyweds were greeting their guests, with Marius’ grandfather performing most of the introductions.

“You do not wish to join them?” Javert asked. “It could be to your benefit to know some of Monsieur Gillenormand’s bourgeois associates if they are frequent guests at his dinner table.”

Valjean looked uncomfortable. “No, I... wouldn't want to intrude.”

Javert frowned. “I hardly think participating in your daughter’s wedding reception constitutes an intrusion.”

“They will be happier without me hanging on to their every word.”

Looking at him sidelong, Javert asked, “You aren't still thinking Cosette doesn't want you around anymore, are you?”

Valjean did not reply, but waved at Cosette, who was looking at him. She took her new husband by the arm and dragged him across the open dance floor. Skirting the tables, Cosette ran up to her father as quickly as her dress would allow.

Valjean leaned forward to kiss her on the cheek.

“Hello, dear one,” he smiled, a trace of melancholy in his words.

“Hello, papa,” said Cosette. “Monsieur Javert.”

“Baroness Pontmercy,” Javert replied, bowing from the waist.

Cosette giggled, but Javert was coolly returning Marius’ look of astonishment. The young man glanced to Valjean and back again, and Javert, guessing what was on his mind, coughed gently.

“Monsieur le Baron, a moment of your time if you please,” he said.

Valjean looked alarmed at the thought of being left on his own, and so Javert took him by the elbow and turned him toward one of the tables.

“Monsieur, why don't you accompany your daughter and try some of those canapés she’s been eyeing.”

Cosette blushed, but she laughed and grabbed her father by the hand, leading him over to the little pastries.

When they were alone, Javert gestured to Marius.

“Shall we step outside a minute, Monsieur?”

Marius nodded warily, and so they walked through a small side door out into a back hallway, which led to the church kitchens. The hall was empty, which suited Javert’s purposes just fine.

Marius beat him to the draw. “You're alive, Monsieur,” he said, his surprise clear.

“That much should be obvious.”

“How can that be? Enjolras sent Monsieur Fauchelevent to shoot you, I heard the gunshot -”

“And?” Javert interrupted. “A gun will still fire if it is not pointed at a target. I told you that your bride’s father and I were acquainted. You saw him at the barricades, and you have to wonder how I escaped?”

“Then he did not...” Marius took a deep breath. “I thought you were lying, Monsieur, when you said you knew one another. You were a spy - you could have heard about Cosette from one of the others.”

Javert snorted. “True enough, I could have, although you should know, Monsieur, that I cannot stand lying.”

With a sigh, Marius said, “That is perhaps just as well. Frankly, Monsieur... Well, I have some questions, if you think you could answer them.”

Crossing his arms, Javert asked, “Questions?”

“Well...” Marius fiddled with a silver button on his suit coat, evidently discomfited. “Some... clarification, if you could.” When Javert only looked at him, the young baron went on hesitantly. “You told me that you have known Monsieur Fauchelevent for a long time.”

“Yes.”

“Then you must know something of his past?”

Javert froze. “Yes,” he answered, tight-lipped.

Marius quailed under Javert’s look, but he pressed on. “A few nights ago, he came to speak with me regarding Cosette’s dowry. He... He promised us a very large sum of money, and proceeded to tell me how he came by it. I could not help but wonder... Well, I could not help but wonder whether there might be more to the story.”

“There's always more to the story where Valjean is concerned,” Javert growled, and then his eyes widened when he realized what he had said.

Marius, however, was nodding. “So you know of that, too. Can you blame me, then, Monsieur, for wondering if foul play might have been involved?”

“Foul play?” Javert was caught off-guard by the query. “What exactly did he tell you?”

Marius’ mouth puckered as he tried to remember. “He said that his real name was Jean Valjean, and that he had been a galley slave for nineteen years. He said he broke parole, but that he had done some favors for the mayor of Montreuil-sur-Mer, and that the mayor had repaid him handsomely for it. But... Monsieur, six hundred _thousand_ francs? That is a kingly sum. I cannot imagine what the man must have done for this mayor to... willingly turn over his life’s savings.”

Javert barked a laugh. “Leave it to Valjean to omit everything of importance and cast himself in the worst possible light. Pontmercy, your father-in-law is a good man. I will tell you enough to set your mind at ease, and you shall not tell him I told you, is that clear?”

Marius agreed eagerly, and so Javert thought carefully.

“Jean Valjean was a tree pruner in Faverolles,” Javert began. “His sister had seven children, and one hard winter, they found themselves starving. Valjean stole a loaf of bread, hoping to feed them.”

“And for that he served nineteen years in prison?” Marius asked in amazement.

“No,” Javert told him calmly, “he served five. The extra years were the result of repeated escape attempts. Escaping is an annoying habit of his.”

“But he did break parole?”

“He did.” Javert thought he deserved a medal for keeping the aggravation from his voice. “And he used his anonymity to establish himself as  the mayor of Montreuil-sur-Mer.”

“ _He_ was the -?!”

“He operated a very successful black glass factory,” continued Javert. “And he gave much of the proceeds to build new schools and hospitals. The rest he saved, and now has made your wife’s dowry.”

“So it is honest money?” There was no shortage of relief in Marius’ eyes.

Javert considered this. Technically, breaking parole and living under the assumed name Madeleine meant that Valjean’s fortune was not quite by the books. Still, that clearly was not the sort of detail to bother his new son-in-law with, and so Javert replied, “Yes, it is honest.”

“Thank goodness,” Marius sighed. “Why couldn't he have just told me that?”

“Because he is trying to run again,” Javert murmured, halfway to himself. “My God... That's it, isn't it? He thinks he has to escape, and leave all of this behind him out of some twisted desire to keep punishing himself.”

“We mustn't let him, Monsieur,” Marius said earnestly. “I fear I may have spoken unkindly to him the other night.”

Glaring, Javert responded, “You must apologize, then. You did not strike me as ungrateful, Pontmercy, do not make me change my mind.”

“Of course, Monsieur,” Marius agreed. “I could not be anything less than thankful for Cosette’s hand.”

“You could stand to be thankful for a good deal more than that,” Javert muttered darkly. “Valjean did not wish me to tell you this, but he has spent too much time now selling himself short. Have you wondered, Monsieur, how you made it home to your grandfather’s from the Rue de la Chanvrerie?”

“Every day,” Marius replied immediately. “Monsieur, you cannot mean to say...”

Javert nodded his head the affirmative. “Valjean carried your bleeding body through the sewer - the sewer! - to save your life. I should know - I ran into him at the other end of the tunnels, and it was disgusting. I have never been less pleased to haul a rebel against the state into a fiacre, I can tell you that.”

Marius’ face was full of wonder, and he said, “Monsieur! It truly is a blessed day! Whatever can I do to thank you?”

“Do not let Valjean - Monsieur Fauchelevent to you - keep himself from his daughter. That will be adequate repayment.”

“Cosette,” Marius sighed, a smitten look briefly glazing his expression. “I take it from what Monsieur Fauchelevent said that he has told her nothing of all this?”

“Correct.”

“But Monsieur!” Marius’ lip curled with indignation. “She must be told, she cannot -”

“No.” The word was emphatic, and Marius startled.

“But it would be wrong to keep it from her.”

“You will tell her nothing,” Javert said firmly. “Nor will I. I agree, she must be told, but it must be Valjean to tell her.”

“But if he has avoided speaking of it all this time...”

“I will work on that,” promised Javert. “You must do your part in the meantime to remind him that he is welcome.”

“Of course.”

“Good.” Javert smiled, and it was not quite as cold as it might have been. “We have taken entirely too much time. Get back in there before someone thinks I've murdered the groom.”

Marius laughed a little uncertainly, like he wasn't sure if he was being threatened or not, but Javert pulled the door back open and held it for Marius to re-enter the reception hall. Instantly, the young baron was accosted by his grandfather, who had more associates to introduce him to. Javert nodded to Gillenormand politely, and waited for him to leave with Marius before he strode to where Valjean and Cosette were standing at the tables, comparing the various canapés.

"I like the relish on this one better," Cosette was saying, a dainty slice of rye bread between her fingers. Catching sight of Javert, she added, "Ah, Monsieur, you must try these with the cheese and salmon, they are decadent."

Obligingly, Javert took one, enjoying the smoky fish as he met Valjean's questioning gaze.

"Just taking care of a few details," Javert said innocently, though the way Valjean's eyes squinted told him the man did not entirely believe that.

Sooner rather than later, Marius wrested himself away from his grandfather's attentions and came back to meet his wife and father-in-law.

"Monsieur," said Marius to Valjean with the barest glance in Javert's direction, "I absolutely must introduce you to some of these fine people."

"I wouldn't trouble you," Valjean began, but true to his word, Marius had none of it.

"Oh, but it is no trouble. And if you are to join Cosette and I for Sunday dinners, I fear you must get used to some of my grandfather's aristocratic company."

"But I -" Valjean's expression was bewildered, but Cosette voiced her enthusiasm as well, and the two practically frog-marched him out into the crowd.

Javert watched from the tables, a smirk playing across his lips. It would be good for Valjean to have someone else's kind wishes heaped upon him for a change. _Serves him right_ , he thought with a chuckle.

As day turned into evening, there was a dinner, and gifts, and dancing. Javert removed himself entirely from that last, though it brought a warmth to his heart to see Valjean awkwardly lead his daughter in a waltz. When the party drew at last to a close, the newlyweds stood at the door of the church to give everyone their farewells. Cosette and Toussaint were moving into the Rue des Filles du Calvaire, and Valjean had been invited to stay the night there as well. As such, Javert went and found him, sitting on a chapel pew with an overnight bag at his feet.

“I will go back to my apartment tonight,” said Javert without preamble. “Enjoy your evening, and I will see you tomorrow if you like.”

“Of course I would,” Valjean said. Kicking his bag, he added, “I'm not sure about this, Javert.”

Javert huffed. “Both Cosette and Marius would be happy for you to move into the house with them. If you insist on refusing that offer, then certainly you can at least give them one night.”

“Marius did seem happier to see me than I'd expected,” Valjean murmured. “Was that your doing?” he asked sharply a moment later.

Javert was careful to keep his features blank. “Marius knows to be appreciative of you. Let that be enough.”

“And if something goes wrong, what then? I refuse to see either of them hurt.”

Shaking his head, Javert set a hand on Valjean’s shoulder. “Your presence in their lives is unlikely to hurt them, but your absence would.”

Valjean sighed, unconvinced.

“Go on,” Javert told him. “We can keep going around and around the point in the morning.”

“Alright,” Valjean agreed. “Alright.”

He stood and grabbed his bag. Javert walked him to the door, where Cosette helped him into the Pontmercy’s carriage. She was excited to show her father their new rooms, and as the carriage pulled off into the moonlit drive, Javert thought that maybe, just maybe, he could get Valjean to be happy after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look, I'm no expert on French wedding fashion of the early 1800s, and I'm sure somewhere out there there's a fashion major reading this and cringing. If you're the fashion major... I'm sorry, I promise I tried to research, I really did, but it's hard when so many of the search results lead to Pinterest boards.


	19. In which all get what they deserve

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As this fic draws to a close, I would just like to express my gratitude. You out there who have read this have been so kind and supportive all the way through, and your comments and kudos mean so much to me. Thank you for the opportunity to tell a story to such a lovely fandom.
> 
> Also, I regret how long it has taken me to get this chapter together. Between the holiday weekend and a number of family things, it's just been a roller coaster couple of weeks. I appreciate your patience and understanding.
> 
> Without further ado...

“Ah, Monsieur, I believe you are expected.” The porter stood in the open doorway, looking Javert up and down. It was mid-morning, and as promised, Javert had arrived in the Rue des Filles du Calvaire. The houses here rose from the street in a stately mass of white stone. Tall windows were ornamented by narrow, decorative balconies in front of them and carved lion’s heads above. Number six was as fine as any, and the wealth of the Gillenormands was made apparent just in looking at it.

Javert stepped inside the spacious antechamber. To his left, a staircase curved up to the next floor, and to his right was the grand salon. This is where Valjean sat, resting on a white settee. The room’s style was entirely neoclassical according to the tastes of Louis XVI, and Javert caught himself wondering where exactly Marius had wound up with his revolutionary ideals when clearly his grandfather favored the old monarchy.

Valjean looked up from the copy of the _Moniteur_ he was reading and brightened.

“Javert,” he said, getting to his feet, “Good morning. The children went for a walk in the garden, and they asked me to convey their welcome.”

“Fauchelevent.” The name felt wrong in Javert’s mouth, but the porter had followed him, probably to ask after their need for refreshment. “You enjoyed your evening?”

Valjean waved the porter away as Javert went to examine the fireplace. Over the mantle hung a portrait of a younger Gillenormand.

“It was... good,” Valjean replied. “The guest bedroom is more opulent than I could ever be comfortable with,” he added when Javert looked at him for elaboration. “But Cosette settled in immediately. I suspect she will be running the household herself within a month.”

Javert laughed softly. “That is well.”

“It is.” There was a tightness to Valjean’s features that Javert recognized.

“What is wrong?”

“Hmm?”

Turning away from the fireplace, Javert sank into a plush fauteuil, the wood edged with gilt and the cushions embroidered with a wreath of silver leaves. When he was situated, he met Valjean’s eyes, aware that his own were creased with concern.

“You still have that look,” explained Javert. “Like you are... resigned to something awful.” He sighed. “I thought I had seen the last of that particular expression when I did not arrest you, but I have seen it more and more these past weeks.” At that last thought, his mouth twitched with displeasure. “It is not an expression I like.”

Resting an elbow on the arm of the settee, Valjean buried his face in his hand. “Javert...”  he groaned. “Must we -”

“We must,” Javert insisted, “if the alternative is to watch you destroy yourself in some act of penance nobody asked for. What were you planning to do, disappear into the night without even leaving a forwarding address?”

Valjean winced, and said quietly, “I had discarded that as an option. Cosette might understand, but you... I knew you would not.”

“No, I wouldn’t.” Javert glared, and Valjean shrank, but at last they seemed to be getting to the heart of the matter. “What is it you are so afraid of? Oh, I know what you have said -” he continued, stopping Valjean from interrupting, “that you fear exposure - but I do not think that is entirely it.”

“What is it you think?” The question was small, Valjean staring at his lap.

“I think,” Javert began slowly, deliberately, “that you are afraid of what Cosette would think of you if she knew. And I think that, above all, you do not believe you deserve to be happy. Now tell me, am I wrong?”

Valjean’s face when he looked up was bloodless, and for a second, Javert was terrified that he might have irreparably damaged something between them with his bluntness, but then Valjean’s shoulders slumped.

“You are not wrong,” he whispered.

Javert stood and crossed to sit on the settee. He slid one arm around Valjean’s shoulders, and with his free hand, he brought Valjean’s fingers to his lips.

Valjean turned his face away. “Someone will see,” he murmured, but the lines around his mouth lifted and he seemed to relax a little into the touch.

“Let them see,” Javert replied dismissively. “Servants are always looking for a rumor to scandalize the others with.”

“You say that now.” Valjean’s exhalation at the end contained a puff of laughter. “Truly, are you angry with me?”

Javert shook his head. “I am not angry.” He relinquished his grip on Valjean’s hand, but the fingers on his shoulder moved to thread themselves gently through short white hair. “You find it within yourself to look at me with something that isn’t fear or revulsion, and that is nothing short of a miracle. Equally miraculous is the fact that you allow me this.” He ran his thumb along the nape of Valjean’s neck to emphasize the point. “You have given me peace, Jean, can I not wish the same for you?”

Valjean turned toward him inquisitively. “Jean?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Just now,” Valjean told him. “You called me Jean.”

Javert frowned. “No, I didn’t.”

“You did.”

“Oh.” Embarrassed, Javert pulled his arm back and folded his hands in his lap. “Forgive me the mistake.”

“No,” said Valjean, shaking his head as if to clear it. “It is only, well, I have not been addressed that way in...” He shook his head again. “Not for a very long time.”

“I suppose not,” Javert murmured. “Did you hear anything else I said, or have I quite distracted you now?”

Valjean breathed out heavily. “I heard you. What, exactly, did you have in mind?”

“You need to tell Cosette.” When Valjean began an alarmed protest, Javert held up his hand. “I do not mean that she needs to hear every grisly detail,” he clarified. “But you have been holding this over yourself for years. Trust her, and give her the truth.”

His words were shaky when Valjean replied, “You know, of course, that I am not the only one affected by this? If I, as you suggest, give her the truth, I cannot easily leave out your part in it.”

It was Javert’s turn to take a deep breath. “I know. But she deserves to hear that, too. And if she wishes me to leave when she hears what I am responsible for, well, then at least I will not continue to deceive her.”

“And if she cannot look me in the eye once she knows?”

Javert snorted. “You do Cosette a disservice if you think her opinion of you could be so easily swayed, but if it were, then you would be no worse off than had you cut yourself from her life with no explanation.”

Finally meeting Javert’s eyes, Valjean said, “That would be easier.”

“Easier?” Javert asked skeptically. “I do not think you could walk away as easily as all that. You love her too much. And...” He paused, weighing his words carefully. “I do not believe any truth you could tell her would wound her as badly as if she thought she'd been abandoned.”

Valjean sat up. “Javert, that was uncalled for. I would never -”

“I know you wouldn't. But does she?” Javert narrowed his eyes and leaned forward, aware he was hitting a nerve, and hoping it was the right one. “Her mother left her as a child - I know Fantine had her reasons, but it must have left an impression.”

Shocked, Valjean exclaimed, “I cannot _believe_ -”

Somewhere, a door opened, and there came the sound of tinkling laughter. Valjean shut his mouth instantly, though he gave Javert a glare fit to rival one of the younger man’s. The voices came closer, and Cosette quickly breezed into the salon, her new husband lingering at the door.

“Papa,” she said in greeting, giving Valjean a peck on the cheek. “Javert,” she added with a smile. Her face was tinged with pink from the winter air. “Glad you could make it. Would you like anything to eat? Toussaint made breakfast, and when she saw the size of the kitchen, she got a bit carried away.”

Javert could not repress a chuckle. “Thank you, but sadly, I have already eaten.”

“Papa.” Cosette sat in the fauteuil across from Valjean, leaning forward earnestly. “Have you given any thought to our offer?”

“Oh Cosette, I couldn't possibly,” Valjean replied. “Your spare room is simply too much for me. Number seven is perfectly acceptable accommodations.”

Cosette appeared to pout. “Well,” she said, “if you won't move in with us, then you must at least promise to come to dinner every week.”

“He would be happy to,” Javert interjected smoothly before Valjean could reply.

“Javert -” Valjean began, but he was again interrupted, this time by Marius.

“We really would like to have you,” said Marius cheerily. “It would do us young people good to have some company.”

“I -” Valjean looked around helplessly. “If you insist,” he eventually conceded, looking as though he did not quite know what to make of his defeat.

Cosette cooed in delight and sprang up from her chair to embrace him. As she began to expound upon her plans for the meal to be held the next weekend, they were joined by Marius’ grandfather, who stood next to Marius in the doorway.

“Cosette, my lady,” Gillenormand intoned, “would you do me the honor of walking the garden with me?”

“We’ve only just come in from the garden,” Marius told him with a small frown. “She will catch cold.”

Cosette straightened and shook her head. “That’s no matter, Marius,” she said. “I love to walk in the garden, and grandfather has not been out this morning. The air is good for the constitution.”

She left as easily as she had arrived, with a smile and a wave, her hand resting on Gillenormand’s elbow. Marius turned to watch her go with an amorous expression.

“You see?” said Javert with a pointed look at Valjean. “This is exactly why - why I’m right,” he finished, suspecting Marius of listening.

“Yes, yes,” Valjean muttered. “I will... consider it.”

Javert blinked. The particular choice of words had a curious resonance to it, a gravitas which he could not entirely place. Before he could dwell on it further, Marius made to speak to them again.

“Messieurs,” began the baron, “I was wondering if you might -”

From down the hall, there was a hefty knock on the front door. Marius turned to look, and Javert raised his eyebrows as the sound of muffled conversation drifted toward them. A moment later, one of the servants, Basque, entered the salon with a letter in his hands.

“The person who wrote the letter is in the antechamber,” Basque announced, giving the envelope to Marius.

A strange expression crossed the baron’s face as he read the address, which settled into amusement and then satisfaction as he broke the envelope’s seal and opened the contents. Glancing back towards the antechamber, Marius stepped into the salon and drew close to the settee.

“Do you recall,” he said quietly to Javert, “the matter about which I came to speak to you at the police depot many months ago now, regarding a group of characters at the Gorbeau House?”

Javert nodded. “I had assumed you forgot.”

Marius let out a breath of laughter. “It was not an evening easily forgotten. Unless I am much mistaken -” He glanced again towards the antechamber. “- the man who headed that operation is standing out there.”

“Thénardier,” Valjean gasped in a whisper.

Javert stood and held out his hand for the letter; skimming it, his mouth hardened into a thin line. Marius had scarcely read it, had seen only the handwriting and recognized it, but Javert read the words, and in them found the very threat of blackmail which Valjean feared, thinly veiled behind blatant and unimaginative lies.

“You have a study, do you not?” Javert asked, returning the brief missive to its addressee. When Marius nodded, he continued. “Receive him there. I will have Basque go to the nearest station house. Meanwhile, you must keep him occupied until the police can deal with him.”

“Monsieur...” Marius said slowly, “this Thénardier is a miserable man, of that I have no doubt, but he also once saved my father’s life. It would be wrong of me to send him to prison.”

Javert raised his eyes in exasperation. “Then you should not have told me,” he said flatly. “This man could have killed your father-in-law. Myself as well,” he added as an afterthought. “And now he will extort you to the end of your days if something is not done. I doubt very much that your father was saved by him - Thénardier wouldn't save his own mother unless there was something in it for himself. If anything, your father was probably duped.”

Marius groaned. “I have wondered as much myself, and if that were the case, then perhaps it would do my father greater honor to see him imprisoned.”

“Go. Your visitor is waiting.” Javert waved Marius away, and after a moment, the baron bowed his head and complied.

Javert listened hard to what little he could overhear of the exchange in the antechamber, and then he stepped well out of sight as Marius led Thénardier along to the staircase opposite the salon. No sooner had they disappeared up to Marius’ study than Javert went in search of Basque, finding him talking to Nicolette, another servant, in the kitchens.

“Go to the nearest police depot,” Javert instructed. “Bring as many officers here as can be spared immediately. You will tell me when they arrive, and I will meet them outside.”

Basque bowed. “And what am I to tell them?”

Javert’s eyes narrowed as he grinned. “Tell them that Javert has happened upon the rat Thénardier, and now he requires a mousetrap.”

* * *

The waiting was tense. Valjean, who had blanched at the first mention of Thénardier’s name, and then again at the notion of a group of police officers descending upon the house, had vanished upstairs and sequestered himself in the guest room. Javert was reasonably sure he had even locked the door behind him.

For his part, Javert was pulled taut by anxieties. He was barring the main entrance with his mass, though as of yet neither Marius nor Thénardier had reappeared. Still, if Thénardier grew suspicious, it would not be so hard a thing for him to sneak out through a window or some such and escape. Javert hated to look like a fool, and hated even more the idea that the crook and swindler might get away.

After what felt like too long, Basque entered through the door behind him to announce that several of the Prefect’s officers had joined him, ready to follow the minute Javert’s name was mentioned. Instructing Basque to continue monitoring the front door, Javert stepped outside to see a group of five men, headed no less than by Beaulieu.

“Javert,” Beaulieu grinned, stepping forward.

“Officer,” Javert returned warmly. “It’s good to see you.”

“Actually, it’s Inspector, now,” Beaulieu said with a wink. “I think your approval of me was instrumental there. The paperwork went through last month.”

Momentarily surprised, Javert paused. “Inspector! Well, congratulations.”

Beaulieu gestured towards his companions. “We were all in the station going over some reports when your man, Basque, brought your message. This is Garnier, Fabre, Leon, and Rousseau.” As he named them, each officer offered his greetings.

Javert nodded to each of them in turn. “Basque told you why I asked you here?”

The one called Leon, who had a shock of red hair, nodded. “He said that you’d found Thénardier, though how that could be, I can’t imagine.”

“Show some respect, Leon,” Beaulieu chided. “But perhaps you could fill us in,” he added to Javert.

“The family who lives here, the Gillenormands, with their grandson and his new wife, are a wealthy family. As an... acquaintance of theirs, I was visiting this morning, when the grandson, Pontmercy, received a letter we recognized as being from Thénardier. My belief is that he means to extort the family for a portion of their wealth.”

“Blackmail?” Beaulieu raised his eyebrows.

“Some family scandal, no doubt,” Fabre interjected. “You know how the bourgeois can be.” There was a shared chuckle.

“Where is he now?” Beaulieu asked.

“Pontmercy is entertaining him in his second floor study,” Javert replied.

“Good.” He turned to his men. “Rousseau, go around to the back of the house, just in case. Garnier, you will guard the front. Fabre, Leon, with me.” Facing Javert again, he said, “You know, of course, that as you aren’t on the police force any longer, I will have to ask you to leave this to us.”

Javert nodded. “You would be remiss in your duties if you did not.”

“Let’s go, then.”

Breaking into their groups, the officers entered into number six, Javert following behind. As the team of three made their way up the stairs, Javert waited in the antechamber, unwilling to sit down. Straining to hear, Javert put a hand on the newel post of the stair rail, and then backed away again at the sound of shouting.

Thénardier struggled as he was taken down the stairs, but even he could not hope to escape the grip of both Fabre and Leon when irons held his wrists behind his back. Beaulieu met Javert’s eyes and smiled grimly.

“Got him,” he said, self-evidently.

Javert returned his look. “Well done, Inspector,” he murmured. “The Prefect will be pleased.”

“You've been a thorn in our sides for months,” Fabre growled to their prisoner. “It's La Force for you.”

Beaulieu stopped on the bottom step as the two officers took Thénardier out to the waiting fiacre.

“Thanks for the tip,” said Beaulieu. “Lord knows he's a slippery one.”

“Keep an eye on him,” Javert advised. “He escaped La Force once. He’ll do it again if the security isn't tightened.”

“Don't worry,” reassured the new Inspector. “I suspect they'll be keeping him in solitary.” He looked at Javert with some hesitation. “How have you been keeping? I haven't seen you since... well, since June.”

Javert laughed softly. “Do you know?” he said. “I've never been better.”

Beaulieu smiled. “I'm glad to hear it. Is this where you're staying? One of these days, I might need your advice on something.”

“I'm only visiting,” Javert replied. “Recently, I've been staying on the Rue de l’Homme-Armé, but that could change. I'll send my address along to the station.”

“I'll hold you to it,” Beaulieu smiled. “Now I'd best be off. They'll be waiting for me outside.”

Javert watched his once-subordinate leave before he climbed the stairs to the second floor. The door to the guest room was still closed. Javert rapped his knuckles against the wood.

“It's me,” he announced.

There was a click of the lock, and the door opened. Valjean still looked uncomfortable, though that faded when he saw Javert was alone.

“I'm sorry,” he said. “Being silly, I suppose.”

Javert shook his head. “I would be very surprised indeed if you were suddenly pleased to be surrounded by police, and anyway, in here there was no chance of your getting caught in the scuffle.”

“They've left, I take it?”

“With Thénardier,” Javert confirmed. “He will not trouble you or the Pontmercys any longer.”

Valjean sighed with relief. “Thank God,” he said quietly.

“Are you ready to go back downstairs?”

“Actually...” said Valjean, “I was thinking we might go into Marius’ study.” When Javert looked at him questioningly, he went on. “It is more suited to private discussions than the salons, and I would not have the others overhearing what I must say to the children.”

“You're going to tell them.”

Valjean dipped his head. “You made your point. They deserve to know. Cosette deserves to know.”

“And she should hear it from you,” Javert agreed. “Good. Meet Marius in the study, then, and I shall see if Cosette is returned from her walk.”

Cosette was just removing her bonnet when Javert found her, and she followed him upstairs without a word, although she did look searchingly at him when he said her father wished to speak with her.

“Papa?” she asked when she entered. “What is this about?”

Valjean was standing at the window, Marius seated at his desk. At her inquiry, he turned, motioning for Javert to shut the door behind them.

“Cosette, my dear,” he began slowly. “You are not a child any longer. You are a married woman now. And as such... Well, you must be told the truth of certain matters. Your husband as well, as I fear I may have misled him somewhat recently.”

The young woman frowned. “Papa?”

Javert took her arm and led her to the chair in front of the desk. “Sit,” he advised. “This could take some time.”

Valjean exhaled. “You are aware,” he said, addressing his daughter, “that I have not been open about my life before you came into it.”

Nodding, Cosette replied, “You always said you could not tell me yet.”

“I did. However... Javert has convinced me that it is high time that changed, and I think he has the right of it.”

Haltingly, he began to tell the story of Jean Valjean, a man who went from Faverolles to prison, who reemerged a changed and broken man, only to meet the bishop Myriel and change again. Most of it, Javert already knew, and he watched instead the face of Cosette, who was utterly enraptured by the story her father was spinning. She was by some surprised and by some dismayed, but nowhere did Javert find a trace of the condemnation Valjean so feared.

When the story turned to Montreuil-sur-Mer, Javert added the occasional comment or correction. Valjean attempted to lessen somewhat Javert’s role in what transpired, but Javert would not permit that. It defeated the purpose of the exercise if Cosette were left with a false impression of either of them. As a result, Cosette’s attention, while still primarily focused on her father, did sometimes flicker to Javert, even when it was Valjean speaking. Javert was not sure what that meant, but he tried to remain rational. Cosette’s mind would make up itself; all they could do was present the facts succinctly and honestly.

Valjean explained about Fantine as well, and the inn in Montfermeil. This was apparently as much a revelation for Marius as for his wife, though if his expression were anything by which to judge, he was only more glad he had agreed to aid the incarceration of Thénardier. When the tale was told, there was a long silence. Valjean did not seem capable of meeting his daughter’s gaze.

Then Cosette leaned forward and said, “Oh, papa, is that _all?_ ”

Valjean looked up as if struck. “What?”

Standing, Cosette went to give her father a hug. “I am not a fool, papa. I always knew there was something you did not wish to tell me, and you made it a point to avoid the police. I have imagined much worse things in your past than what you have told me.”

“Then...” Valjean was unsteady on his feet, floored by this pronouncement. “Then you do not hate me?”

“Papa!” Cosette cried, outraged by the very idea. “As if I ever could!”

Marius stood also, pushing his chair in at his desk. “It is even more wondrous than you know, my love,” he said. “Thénardier’s visit this afternoon was doubly fortuitous, first because it led to his arrest, and second because he inadvertently proved that it was your father who rescued me from the barricade, as evidenced by this scrap of fabric torn from my coat in the sewers!” Marius brandished the torn cloth, and Cosette gasped in delight.

“Can it be true?” she asked.

When Valjean hesitated, Javert spoke up. “It is.” All eyes turned to him, and he raised his shoulders slightly. “I was there,” he explained. “Your father can tell you about it another day. For now, perhaps it would be best to take him downstairs and fix him some tea.”

“I will take him,” Marius volunteered immediately. He spoke with considerable animation about the depth of his gratitude as he led Valjean out of the study. Javert expected Cosette to follow as well, but she did not. Instead, when the door closed behind them, she turned and looked Javert in the eye.

“So,” she said evenly.

Ah, he thought. So it came to this. He schooled himself strictly to attention, determined that he would not fidget, even as Cosette stared at him expressionlessly.

“You know,” Cosette began, “I did not realize when you said that you and father had not always gotten along that that meant you had been his jailer.”

To his credit, Javert did not flinch. “That was, obviously, a euphemism on my part,” he agreed.

“And I do not believe arresting my mother constitutes knowing her.”

“Probably not,” said Javert shortly.

“Still,” Cosette said after a pause, “he seems to have forgiven you all that.”

Through clenched teeth, Javert managed, “Your guess why is as good as mine.”

“You are not planning to rearrest him.” It was not a question, but Javert replied regardless.

“No. I was wrong, before. I may always have been wrong. Your father is a good man.” _One whom I am unworthy of_ , he added to himself.

Cosette studied him thoughtfully. “Well,” she said finally, “if father can forgive you, then I suppose I must do so also. It would not do to be angry with you, Monsieur, when you are making amends.”

Suddenly, Javert thought he understood better how Valjean felt. He had fully expected Cosette to tell him to leave; he would not have dared to even consider that she might overlook his transgressions. A dizziness came over him.

“Madame...?” said Javert uncertainly.

“You will, of course, come to dinner with father,” Cosette continued. “It only seems fair that I get to know you better. Will you be staying at the Rue de l’Homme-Armé?”

In his bemusement, Javert’s eyebrows furrowed. “Perhaps,” he said, “although now that Thénardier is no longer a threat, I was thinking I might try convincing Val - your father to move back to the Rue Plumet.”

For the first time in that conversation, Cosette looked at him with real approval. “That would be well,” she said. “It is a far more pleasant house.”

“There is a bigger garden,” Javert said. “It suits him better.”

“That it does.” Cosette smiled and held out her hand. “Perhaps you would care for some tea yourself, Monsieur.”

Taking her arm, Javert felt the corner of his mouth turn up. “Do you know,” he said, “I rather think I might.”

* * *

_One week later_

It was a cold and dreary day in January, but inside number fifty-five, Toussaint had stirred the fire up to blazing. A fresh coat of snow lay over the earth, and in Javert’s hand was the last bag to be brought in from the fiacre out in the street. Valjean was standing in the salon, carefully returning a pair of silver candlesticks to the mantle. He looked up when Javert set down the bag and his eyes danced with amusement.

“You haven't been outside five minutes, and you're red as a beet,” he said with a laugh.

Snorting dismissively, Javert crossed the room to stand next to the grate and warm his hands. “Less than five minutes, maybe,” he replied, “but that doesn't stop it from being positively frigid out there.”

“Come here,” Valjean laughed again, catching Javert’s chilled fingers between his own warm ones. At Javert’s questing look, he added, “Toussaint has gone upstairs to air the mattresses.”

Stepping closer both to the fire and Valjean’s natural body heat, Javert asked, “Will Cosette be able to manage without her?”

Valjean kept hold of Javert’s fingers with one hand and wrapped the other around Javert’s waist, drawing the taller man closer so they could stand nestled side by side.

“I don't see why not,” replied Valjean. “The Gillenormands have other servants, and everyone will be happier without Toussaint and Nicolette’s constant bickering.”

Javert shook his head in exasperation. The Sunday meal to which they had been invited earlier that week - the first of many, at Cosette’s behest - had been enough to illustrate to all parties that there was simply no way to marry the old habits of two aging maids, who could not agree on anything from the place settings to the appropriate wine for the main course, and who subsequently sniped at one another the entire evening.

“I am told there is to be another snow storm brewing by the week’s end,” said Javert. “We will need to be sure there is ample firewood.”

“I'll bring some more in after lunch,” Valjean promised.

There was a thump upstairs as a feather mattress was stripped from the top of a bed. Javert glanced toward the noise. “Should we go lend our assistance?” he asked.

“She would be offended if you tried,” responded Valjean. “She takes her responsibilities as housekeeper very seriously.”

Humming his acknowledgment, Javert drew Valjean to the sofa. He was warmer, but that did not stop him from sitting pressed close against Valjean’s side.

“While we have some time to ourselves, there is a matter I have been... putting off discussing,” Valjean said quietly.

“Oh?”

“Mmmm.” Valjean shifted, looking at the fire rather than Javert. “The question of your lodgings.”

“Ah.” Javert flushed faintly. It had somehow come to Valjean’s attention that without steady work, Javert’s meager savings had been consumed by the rent on his apartment. “I have been meaning to look for a job,” he said, a tad stiffly.

Valjean shook his head. “You misunderstand me,” he replied. “I was going to suggest that you stay here.”

“Ah,” Javert said again, though inside he was reeling.

“Cosette has no use for her room here anymore,” Valjean went on, “and Toussaint, though she has agreed to come by once a week to clean, intends to find her own place. It will be quite empty here, otherwise, and you could have a room entirely to yourself.”

Javert looked at the way Valjean’s eyes were turned very intently elsewhere, and the way his ears reddened around the edges. “Yes,” he murmured slyly, “but suppose I do not wish a room entirely to myself?”

“Well,” Valjean replied carefully, “then my room is just down the hall.”

Smirking, Javert took hold of Valjean’s hand. “Now, that is an offer I could accept.”

Valjean glanced at him and grinned through his embarrassment. “Do you mean it?”

Javert huffed lightly. “I never say anything I don't mean.”

The fire crackled as they sat side by side. Out-of-doors, the wind howled and blew snow from the roofs of houses, but within number fifty-five, Valjean talked of spring, and of his plans for the garden. He waxed on about fertilizers and pavers and more vines to grow over the walls. Javert drank it all in, content to sit and listen for as long as Valjean wished to speak. And when late that night they retired, curling close together for warmth under the eiderdown, Javert reflected that it was a marvelous thing, this garden they would build together.


End file.
